


Time Signature

by la_faerie



Series: Paris, je t'aime [3]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Louis is still a priest, M/M, Married Couple, Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 03:17:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/la_faerie/pseuds/la_faerie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When he looks back up, he swears that he’s in a dream. He must be. Because, Liam would know those blue eyes anywhere, but the only place he’s seen them for years now is in his dreams.</i> </p><p>This is a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/711166">Paris Pratique</a> from Liam's point of view.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Time Signature

**Author's Note:**

> I have to begin by saying, I never thought I'd write fic about a priest, and I certainly never thought anyone would be interested in reading it. The reaction to Paris Pratique was kind of baffling and amazing. I was opposed to doing a sequel for a long time, but, then I thought, if I wrote something from Zayn's perspective, surely Liam deserves to have a voice in all of this too. So, this may not be exactly the sequel everyone would like to see (as the tag says, Louis is still a priest) but I hope it has something to offer anyway. I genuinely thank anyone who has stuck with this series. Merci beaucoup!
> 
> Toward the end of this fic, Liam and Louis listen to and talk about the jazz piece, Take Five. If you want to listen to the song along with them, you can do that [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tp572lvYrl8). But really, just listen to it because it's a great piece of music, not because of Liam and Louis.
> 
> These notes are getting long, but I must mention [Any](http://archiveofourown.org/users/cmdf) because this entire universe is her fault. Any, thank you for being the original inspiration, and for whispering in my ear so often about a sequel that I felt finally compelled to do it. You put almost as much blood, sweat, and tears into this installment as I did, and I'm so grateful. This absolutely could not have been written without you. #blameAny

_The persons of their world lived in an atmosphere of faint implications and pale delicacies, and the fact that he and she understood each other without a word seemed to the young man to bring them nearer than any explanation would have done._  
 **Edith Wharton; The Age of Innocence**

 

Liam feels as though he spends all of his time in New York craning his neck to look up at the skyscrapers. It’s a city built upwards, requiring you to look up both to really take it in, and to get beyond it, to see a piece of the sky. Even the cathedral he’s taking in right now, St. Patrick’s, requires him to incline his head to take in the spires and stained glass. The cathedral is different from the skyscrapers, of course, though no less impressive. It doesn’t look out of place near Saks Fifth Avenue, a place of worship for a different set of people. The cathedral somehow looks exactly as though it belongs in midtown Manhattan, like this city block had sensed a need many years ago, and the cathedral had sprung to life overnight.

The smaller hand entwined in his pulls insistently, and Liam crouches down to her level. The view is even more overwhelming from down here, there’s just _so much_ of everything to take in. She simply looks around with clear, inquisitive brown eyes, and a steadfast refusal to be over-awed by anything. But then, she doesn’t know any differently; she doesn’t know how much smaller she is than her father, doesn’t know what it’s like to see things from a higher vantage point. 

She wants to see the stained glass windows, and Liam thinks that they’re allowed inside to look. He promises her hot chocolate and a treat afterwards as they round the corner onto Fifth Avenue to the front of St Patrick’s cathedral. A few people are scattered on the front steps, despite the December afternoon chill. They huddle together in groups on the cold stone, clutching Starbucks cups in their gloved hands. A man is playing Christmas carols on the saxophone, the instrument automatically lending a jazzy feel to _God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen_ , but the inherent melancholic tone of the song manages to seep through. Liam feels an undefined nostalgia twisting in his chest at the melody. He looks down to see his little companion happily skipping up the stairs next to him. When he looks back up, he swears that he’s in a dream. He must be.

Because, Liam would know those blue eyes anywhere, but the only place he’s seen them for years now is in his dreams. He’s dreamt about the possibility of this meeting more than he would care to admit, but he’s dreaded it too. He’s written songs about Paris, and even sung a couple of them himself. He’s performed the songs in front of audiences, but all he could see in the glare of the stage lights was Louis. 

Liam has always referred to him as Louis in his mind, because that was how he had first introduced himself. He had only corrected himself to Père Louis after letting his real name slip. The name hung suspended in the air between them for a second—whispering that they might be equals—before vanishing like smoke, but Liam had kept it alive in his mind.

And so, Liam has written about Paris, and sung about Paris, and dreamed about Paris. But he’s never returned to the City of Light precisely for this reason. The two of them had ended whatever it is they had been doing together on the best terms that they could. The possibility of another meeting seemed nonexistent.

And yet, Louis certainly looks real, standing before Liam on the steps of St Patrick’s. The shock of recognition is playing out across his face, but there’s also a fondness pulling at the corner of his mouth. He’s standing on the stairs right next to a group of people, as though to prove that he actually is taking up space is the real world, and not just in Liam’s memory. He’s wearing his typical black trousers and a black wool pea coat, with a red scarf tied around his neck, a bolt of color against the black.

Liam feels a tugging at his hand, and he suddenly remembers the promise of hot chocolate. “Daddy!” She’s not quite whining yet, but almost. He’ll have to explain.

“Madeleine, darling, I’m sorry to stop. But this is actually,” he pauses to look directly at Louis, “a very dear friend of mine.”

“A very old friend,” Louis corrects, his smile opening up. There’s a flicker of something else in his look, too. A memory. A Parisian summer. It sends a tremor through Liam. Louis shifts to looks at Madeleine. “It’s lovely to meet you, Madeleine, is it?” she nods, but her face is still guarded, uncertain. She can’t yet tell how her father and this strange man could possibly be connected. “Is your father being terribly boring and dragging you to church?”

“No, I’m bringing him.” 

Louis casts a glance back up at Liam, one eyebrow raised. Liam shifts his weight from foot to foot. “She wants to see the stained glass windows up close. I thought we might be allowed inside, that is, if Mass isn’t on at the moment.”

“As it happens, you’re in luck. Evening Mass doesn’t begin for another couple of hours. And I’ve become quite familiar with this cathedral over the past few months. Would you like me to show you around?” he directs this last question to Madeleine, who nods.

She lets go of Liam’s hand and walks up to Louis. “Are you in charge of this church? Are you a priest?” she asks in a matter-of-fact voice, her curiosity about him winning out over any hesitation.

“Yes,” Liam answers from behind them. “Yes, he’s a priest.”

“Actually,” Louis turns to look at him with a grin, and bounces onto the balls of his feet. “It’s Archbishop now. Archbishop Louis Tomlinson.”

“Archbishop!” Liam cries. He reaches for Louis’ shoulder, can’t help himself. He shakes Louis out of pure emotion. “That’s fantastic, congratulations!”

“Alright, alright!” Louis brushes him off, embarrassed. “I’ve been at the post for a few years now. But, to answer Madeleine’s question, I’m not in charge of this cathedral, but I am a priest. Your father used to call me…” Louis gives a little laugh and turns to Liam. “What did you call me?” but in a voice that sounds like he remembers, he’s only looking for confirmation.

“Father Tommo. Père Louis.” he doesn’t say Louis, of course. Keeps it for himself.

“Would you like to call me Père Louis?” Louis asks Madeleine. 

“You’re a friend of my dad’s?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm,” is the only answer she gives. She walks up to one of wooden doors and looks behind to check that they’re following her.

“She isn’t shy, exactly,” Liam explains. “But she does like to be cautious.”

“She’s her father’s daughter, then.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Liam answers, thinking about how maybe he hadn’t been cautious at all with Louis. He’d been reckless. But he notices Louis giving him a funny look. “Oh for heaven’s sake, you know that isn’t what I meant! Of course she’s actually my daughter, you lunatic.” Louis swings open the door, and gives such a genuine laugh that it rings all throughout St. Patrick’s vaulted vestibule. 

The sound makes Liam think he can smell that dry mineral note of freshly poured champagne mixed with dusty jardin pathways.

 

The interior of St. Patrick’s is like a miniature city with sections designated for the votives, and for the confessionals, and little alleyways connecting everything. On the altar, two candles are lit on the advent wreath. The church smells spicy in that particular Christmas-y way. The scent is achingly familiar to Liam, and he feels as though that earlier burst of nostalgia has been made tangible, that he’s living in it. Of course Louis— _archbishop Louis_ Liam keeps reminding himself—knows the proper terms for everything. He leads them around the inside perimeter, and lets Madeleine stand on the pews to get a good look at the windows.

“It isn’t a sunny day,” Louis is saying to Madeleine. “The colors on the glass aren’t as bright, but sometimes it’s nicer this way. You can see the picture more clearly.”

“Yes,” Madeleine agrees, grasping Liam’s hand to climb up onto another pew. “I like it this way. Look, you can tell some of the colors are see-through, and some aren’t.”

“Ah, you’re right! It gives the whole thing a more textured feel, don’t you think?” he turns to Liam for his input.

“You should really be having this conversation with Zayn, not me.”

Louis gives a start. “Are you still friends with him?”

“Absolutely,” Liam smiles at Madeleine, “you know, Uncle Zayn.” 

“Uncle Zayn and Uncle Niall,” she singsongs. Then she turns to Louis to explain. “They live together, but Uncle Harry sometimes stays over with them. Not because he lives with them, but because…” she pauses and then shakes her head, her wavy hair bouncing around her face. “I don’t actually know why. Sometimes he stays over with us too, and I don’t know why he does that either.”

“It’s because he likes being around people. So you see,” Liam grins at Louis. “Not much has changed.”

“Brilliant,” Louis says, but he looks at Madeleine with a pensive expression, as though he’s thinking that at least a couple of things have changed.

“This old man’s feet are tired, darling,” Liam whines just a little. “I’m going to sit down here for a minute, okay?”

“Okay, but I’m still going to look at the windows.” She has plans of her own and no pity for him.

“As long as you stay on this side of the aisle so that I can still see you,” Liam instructs, but she’s already walking away. She breaks into a little skip that’s on the verge of turning into a run. “No running inside a church!” Liam wants to yell, but yelling inside a church seems just as bad. He ends up hissing it as loudly as he can. She slows her pace a little before speeding up again.

Louis laughs at him, and takes a seat in the pew in front of him. He twists around to look at Liam. “Oh, she’s brilliant. Formidable,” he declares in awe. “I like her already.”

“I quite like her too. And she must get those traits from her mother.”

“I don’t know, I seem to recall you being rather a force to be reckoned with.” Liam switches his gaze from Madeleine to look at Louis, who feels the need to clarify. “For me, anyway. My God,” Louis swears. “All of that was ages ago.”

“No,” Liam shakes his head. “It was just yesterday.”

“I’m turning forty in a couple of weeks, Liam,” Louis laughs. “I wish it were yesterday. I’d give anything to be twenty-seven again.”

“Oh, that’s right, I’m finally glad to be younger than you. You’re the old man!” he teases. Liam really takes Louis in then. Some people grow softer with age, but it seems that age has only drawn Louis into sharper relief. His profile cuts an almost intimidating line, but the tiny wrinkles that are now etched in around his eyes give his personality away. he looks as though he’s perpetually laughing about something. “No,” Liam says in a gentler voice. “It suits you.”

Louis turns to look at him with those blue eyes, so piercing, as though he knows everything, but the game is that he’ll only reveal one piece at a time. “It suits you as well. Liam as a dad! It’s exactly you. You know, I’m glad you have a daughter. I hope she challenges you, I hope she gives you hell.”

“Rude person!” Liam waves his hand at Louis as though swatting his words away. “Yes,” he adds, after a minute. “I imagine she will.”

Liam can see Madeleine making her way back down the aisle now, and he’s struck with the urge to lean in toward Louis. He places one hand on the pew in front of him, close to Louis’ shoulder. “Is this a dream?” he asks in a low tone.

Louis considers for a moment, then places his hand lightly on top of Liam’s. “If it is a dream, I’m having the same one.” He gives Liam a look like he can’t decide if that’s comforting or not. Liam can’t quite decide either.

Then Madeleine is there, pushing her way into the pew, shoving Liam over to squeeze in next to him. Louis’ hand is now over his own mouth, in an attempt to stifle laughter. “Dad!” she clutches his arm, as though what’s coming next is extremely important. “Can we get hot chocolate now?”

“Hmm, I suppose I did promise.”

“Don’t tease, it’s not nice. Will mummy be able to come too?”

“I’ll text her. She thought she’d be able to meet us,” Liam checks his watch. “Her interview is supposed to be over by now, and her deadline isn’t until later tonight.”

“Are you coming with us?” 

Liam looks up to see Madeleine addressing this question to Louis, who looks utterly taken aback. 

“Yes,” Liam jumps in to rescue him. “We’re going to this place called Serendipity. It’s supposed to have the most fantastic dessert. You’re welcome to join.”

“I’d better not,” Louis answers in a careful voice. He checks his own watch and nods to himself as though pleased with his decision. Liam isn’t sure yet if the sinking feeling in his stomach is relief or disappointment. “Thank you for the very kind invite though,” Louis says to Madeleine.

“Of course,” she rolls her eyes, as though she’s been trying to be very patient with Louis and Liam. “You and my dad are friends.”

Liam smiles, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “We are indeed.” He turns to Louis again. “We’re in town until the twenty-second, if you’d like to get together sometime between now and then. You know, maybe plan a meeting instead of running into each other on the street.”

“We seem to do an awful lot of running into each other on the streets, but planning could work, too,” Louis chuckles. He digs around in his coat pocket. “I seem to remember giving you my number once upon a time. Shall I do it again?”

They exchange numbers, and Liam notes that this time Louis has an American number. “I should warn you, my spelling hasn’t improved much over the years.”

“He’s the worst! I beat him in all of my practice spelling exams,” Madeleine shrieks with laughter.

“Isn’t he shockingly bad?” Louis asks, and they high five.

“How dare you, both of you! Making fun of me inside a church. I won’t have it, I’m leaving.”

“Me too, me too!” Madeleine shouts, and grabs at his arm. The serene smile on her face says that she’s dreaming of her long-promised hot chocolate and dessert. 

The three of them walk back out into the noisy street. An early winter dusk is falling, and it will be dark soon, even though it’s still afternoon. Louis waves goodbye to both Liam and Madeleine before heading downtown and disappearing into the crowd gazing into the windows at Saks.

Liam and Madeleine wait at the crosswalk.

“I’m not sure yet,” she says, pulling at his hand. “But I think I like him, your friend. He showed me the stained glass windows.”

Liam doesn’t know what to say in answer, how to explain that he would both like it very much if she and Louis got along, and also maybe prefer it if they had never met. Memory is easy, safe in a way, allowing you to re-experience things while maintaining a certain distance. But it seems that Liam can’t keep his distance from Louis any longer. Now his daughter is involved, and the inevitability of his wife becoming involved as well nips around the edges of his mind. 

Liam doesn’t have any kind of coherent response, so he merely says, “come on, the light’s changed. Let’s cross.”

+

Liam and Louis had said they would plan their next meeting, but, a couple of days later, Liam once again coming across a familiar figure. This time, they’re both waiting in line at the Starbucks in the lower level of the Waldorf Astoria. 

Eleanor had insisted on the Waldorf. It’s not that Liam is frugal. He enjoys spending money as much as Eleanor does, but he likes to be _certain_ before spending it.

“Since we’re going to New York for my business trip in the first place, I think I can say with some certainty that we can afford it.” Eleanor had said to him, half-teasing and half-serious, and he already knew that he didn’t stand a chance. “Besides, the Black & White Ball is being held there. It will be so much more convenient if we’re already staying in the building, don’t you think?”

“I really hate it when you outdo my logic with your own,” Liam had said, pressing a kiss to her temple.

“If by hate you mean love, then, yes. I know you hate it,” she replied, turning her face upward for a real kiss. 

So, Liam, Eleanor, and Madeleine had settled into the Waldorf for two weeks. Liam relishes his early morning coffee runs here. (They’d love a more relaxed breakfast, but Eleanor is on a tight schedule at the moment.) He likes to sit with a cup of coffee, and take in the lobby while Eleanor gets ready upstairs. Later, when she gets back and wants to spend time with Madeleine, he’ll go for an actual run of his own.

At half past seven in the morning, the lobby is filled with businessmen in identical suits; later in the day it will be well-dressed women weighed down by their handbags and ornate jewelry. The Waldorf displays touches of art deco in the gold accenting around the first floor, but the heavy mahogany desks and plush chairs signal a tradition of luxury and stability more than a particular artistic time period. The famous marble and mahogany clock at the center of the lobby marks every quarter hour, and the heavy carpeting muffles the chiming, turning the passage of time into something pleasantly soothing. The entire atmosphere has Liam feeling enveloped in a haze of comfort. There are worse ways to start the day.

This morning, Liam steps off the lift and walks across the white marble entrance hall down to the lower level in search of Starbucks, with instructions to get a muffin and some juice for Madeleine for when she wakes up. He checks his wallet, still not quite used to the feel of American dollars, longer and thinner than British pound notes. He then looks back up at the line in front of him, and that’s when he notices an unmistakeable figure, not necessarily tall, but commanding, somehow. His shoulders accentuated by a black blazer, and Liam knows without being able to see it, a white collar around his neck.

Liam hesitates, unsure how to approach, or what to say. _Can it really be you?_ _Hello, Archbishop of Paris. Tell me, honestly, what the fuck are you doing in New York?_ or _why are you inescapable?_ But then Louis is ordering, paying, and stepping aside. He turns and notices Liam. His expression is one of surprise, but also warmth.

“Good morning, Liam,” he says. Then adds in a lower voice, “Bonjour.”

“Bonjour Père Louis.”

Louis considers for a second. “No Father Tommo this time?” he asks.

Liam leans over the display case, picking up a container of orange juice. “I’m not sure yet,” he looks directly at Louis. “You have so many names.”

Louis flashes a mercurial smile then, his eyes light, but giving nothing away. “I don’t make it easy for you, do I?” 

“Easy is boring,” Liam replies, causing Louis to let out a laugh as he walks toward the other side of the counter to pick up his drink. Liam places his order and walks to the end of the counter to see Louis waiting for him. Louis explains that he has some time before he needs to be at the cathedral, and asks would Liam like to sit with him for a few minutes and catch up. Of course Liam would like that.

Liam thinks that it should be difficult to see Louis again, that it should be painful, especially to keep running into him unexpectedly. But it isn’t. The two of them settle into chairs in the Waldorf lobby, their drinks on the table between them, and it’s the most comfortable thing in the world. They did this same thing for so many summer afternoons; they can do it again on a winter morning. And, anyway, maybe the pain will come later.

They smile across the table at each other, just a little bit awkwardly.

“So,” Liam begins. “New York.” It’s a statement and a question.

“New York,” Louis repeats. He takes the lid off his to-go cup to reveal that he’d ordered tea. He inspects it to see if it’s steeped enough by now. “Alright, I’ll go first. I’m sure you’re wondering what brings me away from Paris.”

“A bit curious,” Liam concedes in an understatement. “Isn’t your congregation lonely without you?”

“Ha, that’s the joke of it. The higher you rise, the more business calls you away from your own diocese. Anyway, I have a suspicion about what prompted my trip to New York, but I haven’t told anyone yet. It turns out I’m a superstitious priest, after all. But I feel safe telling you, somehow.”

Liam leans across the table. “You can tell me. You can tell me anything.”

“You’ll laugh,” Louis takes a sip of tea before continuing, “but I think I’m being considered for the College of Cardinals.”

“The College of Cardinals?” Liam chokes out. “As in, you’d be a Cardinal?”

“You could act slightly less surprised,” Louis exclaims, a little offended.

“I’m sorry, I really am. It’s just, aren’t you a bit young? Cardinals, I thought they all must be a hundred and fifty years old!”

“I am young,” Louis agrees. “That’s the thing. It’s not unprecedented, _Cardinal-Infante_ and so forth. But yes, I think I’ve been sent here to work with Cardinal Dolan at St. Patrick’s as a sort of test. So that he can report back to Rome, and they’ll see if I measure up.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Since the middle of September. I’ve flown back and forth several times, but I’ll be heading back to Paris for good in the New Year.”

“And do you think you’ll pass the test?”

“It’s not really for me to say,” Louis says, looking down at his tea, and then back up at Liam. “It’s not for me to say what Cardinal Dolan thinks of me, but I have been a wild success with the parishioners,” and he winks.

“Of course, you and your disgusting charm.” Liam rolls his eyes, but smiles at Louis.

“Are you staying here, at the Waldorf?” Louis inquires.

“Yes, with my family. And you?”

“Yes, I’m staying up in the Waldorf Towers, the residences here.”

Liam raises both eyebrows. “You’re doing _awfully_ well for yourself.”

“No! Well, yes, but not in quite the way you think. I wanted to explain, one of the local families, the Maras, have been very generous to me. I’m staying in one of their apartments here, and I say a private mass for Wellington Mara and his wife every evening before dinner. It’s my rent.”

“Père Louis,” Liam teases. “Are you saying you’ve been taken up by a wealthy American family?”

“Yes, the priest interloper! It’s too much like a Henry James novel to be believed.”

“I’ve never read any Henry James, so it’s easy for me to believe.”

“You know, maybe Edith Wharton is a better comparison anyway. She wrote about old New York,” Louis waves a hand around the lobby, “all of this. She’d love it.” Liam merely shakes his head. Louis eyes him. “Liam, I’ll admit, I’m not a massively well-read person myself, but I have to ask. Do you actually know how to read?”

“I read the articles my wife, Eleanor, writes. That’s about it.”

“Oh now,” Louis leans back in his chair. “That’s not fair. That’s lovely. I can’t make any snarky comeback to that.”

“I know, which is why I said it. And it’s the truth. We’re here because of her, really. The Clinton Foundation is doing some kind of big marketing push, and she was asked to follow Chelsea Clinton around for a couple of weeks for a story.”

“Wow,” is all Louis says, looking suitably impressed.

“Yes, my wife is kind of a big deal,” Liam is half-joking, but he does like to brag about her. He thinks she deserves to be bragged about. “I’m lucky that my schedule is flexible and, technically, I work for Niall, so he gives me any time off I want. We took Madeleine out of school before her holiday break, which was irresponsible of us, really. But we wanted her to see Christmastime in New York with us, and here we are. We’re going to the Clinton Foundation’s Black & White Fundraiser here at the hotel, and then returning home for Christmas.”

“The Black & White Ball?” Louis asks, choking a little on his tea. “I’m going to that as well.” Liam stares. “I did say, the Maras are extremely generous, and not just to me, but to Foundations around the city. Unfortunately, one of their granddaughters is getting married that same day, so Wellington Mara is sending me to the fundraiser in his place.”

“I’m sorry,” Liam gives a stunned laugh. “But this is so odd! We haven’t seen each other in years, and suddenly we’re staying at the same hotel, and attending the same events?” Liam is animated now, flailing his arms and nearly knocking over his coffee. Louis is eyeing him cautiously. “I keep asking if this is a dream, because I’m struggling to believe it. Is there a Henry James novel like this? I would read it, I really would, to try and understand.”

Louis doesn’t seem to know how to respond to this. He eyes Liam’s coffee cup again to be sure it’s still standing. “No, not a Henry James novel that I know of,” he answers finally, flashing his mercurial smile again. “Anyway, like I said, Wharton is the thing.”

They’re technically sitting in the restaurant area of the lobby, and a staff member is heading toward them, presumably to tell them off because they obviously aren’t planning to order anything. Louis simply pulls at his Roman collar, casts an imperious glance around the room, and that’s the end of it. No one questions them. And then Liam understands Louis’ meteoric rise in the ranks of the Church instantly, for, even though Liam is a performer himself now, he’s never commanded a room like that. It’s Louis’ ability to emanate a certain kind of coldness as well as radiating warmth—to wield the two in equal measure—that gives him such power over others. Liam knows, having been on the receiving end of both.

He looks at Louis now, who’s checking his watch. He’s probably due at work soon, but Liam has something he needs to say. “It sounds to me like you’re a smashing success.” Louis shrugs, and gives a wry, embarrassed grin. “If you aren’t being considered for the College of Cardinals, it’s only because they’re afraid of you.”

“Yes, afraid of what I’ll do.”

“No,” Liam corrects. This is important. “They know you’re fantastic. They’re afraid of how much they like you.”

Louis’ expression goes soft for a moment, and then very hard. “I’d better get to work,” he says, standing up in a swift movement. Liam’s stomach plummets; obviously he’s made a grave mistake. But, before he walks away from the table, Louis turns back. “Tomorrow morning?”

Liam looks up at him, sees that Louis is genuinely waiting for his answer. He nods.

“Until then,” Louis declares, and walks away.

Liam has no idea how long he sits alone at the table after Louis leaves. He’s not even doing his usual people-watching, his mind too elastic, drifting from Paris to New York and back again. Quite suddenly, he remembers: orange juice and a muffin. Liam is anchored to the present again, as he thinks of a little girl sleeping upstairs, and her mother, both waiting for him.

+

Being in their tenth year of marriage now, Liam likes to give himself a little credit about knowing what Eleanor’s thinking, what she doesn’t like, and what she loves. In the beginning, she had shown him everything, from demonstrating that she liked to look at the wine list in restaurants and make her own choice, to guiding his hands exactly where she wanted to feel him on her and inside of her. Her self-possession had been a bit scary, and also deeply attractive. And he was grateful, wanting to learn just how to please her.

Liam has worked hard enough that he knows how to take her by surprise now. Sometimes he comes across her spread out in the middle of their bed, with her Smythson notebook and her laptop open in front of her, hard at work. He hovers in the doorway for a moment taking her in: long hair pulled back from her face in a bun, glasses on, chewing a pen between her teeth. She’s wearing an old pair of Liam’s boxers than she commandeered. They’re too big, but she rolls the waistband over a few times, and they rest comfortably around her hips. Liam’s rather biased, thinks she’s beautiful all the time, but especially while she’s absorbed in her work like this.

It’s a little bit bad of him, then, to walk over and press a knee into the mattress, causing it to dip under his weight. 

“What are you doing?” she asks, without taking the pen out from between her teeth.

“Saying hello,” Liam replies, crawling up the bed, curling a hand around her ankle.

“Hello,” she says, looking over at him for the first time, and he can see she’s trying not to smile. He moves his hand up to her knee, pressing it gently down onto the bed, and leans over to kiss the inside of her leg. “Hey troublemaker, I’m working,” she warns, and manages to type something out on the laptop.

“I know,” Liam murmurs. He’s trailing kisses up along her thigh, bunching the fabric of the boxers up around her hip with his hand. “Working too hard. Let me take care of you for a minute.”

“Well, I hope it’s longer than a minute!” she says, and then the glasses come off, and both the laptop and notebook are thrown aside. Eleanor laughs then, as he guides her back onto the pillows and then scoots down to take the boxers all the way off. She’s never been one to hide how much she enjoys this. She giggles and repeats his name until she can’t anymore, until she has to close her eyes and communicate in little broken-off gasps. She grips his shoulders when he puts his mouth on her, and moves a hand up to his hair, pulling insistently when she’s close. He doesn’t mind, he never has, likes to work her through it all, until she’s come down and come back to herself enough to laugh again.

Early into their marriage, they’d talked about what they wanted. Eleanor had gone off her birth control, and they’d stopped using a condom when they decided to try for a baby. Sometimes they use a condom again now, but sometimes they don’t. Liam can never last long when they don’t, even after all this time. It’s too overwhelming, the feeling of her all around him, and he always comes before she’s ready to. 

He knows it’s going to happen, and pulls himself together enough to say “Your turn, babe,” while sliding a hand up her thigh. He doesn’t mind the sticky mess between her legs, and she doesn’t seem to mind either. After he’s gotten her off, she pulls him into the bathroom, and kisses him hard on the mouth, tasting both of them. Then they both step into the shower together. This is what marriage is, Liam thinks to himself. It’s a joint bank account, and different tax forms, and _this_.

But, sometimes—just a few times now—she places a hand on top of his to stop him from continuing any further up her thigh. She turns to him with a closed-off look in her eye and shakes her head.

“Let me do this for you, El,” he pleads, just a little.

She turns very tense then. “You know it isn’t the same for women. It feels different, every single time. And, sometimes, it’s just not going to happen.”

“But, I want it to. Every time.”

A certain sadness is pulling at the edges of her mouth, and Liam doesn’t know why. “I know you do.” She kisses him on the forehead, and then closes herself in the bathroom.

Each time this has happened, it’s become more clear to him. Eleanor didn’t say the sex was bad. The sex generally isn’t bad, and they’re happy together, but she’s whip smart, and she must observe things.

Early in their relationship and into their marriage she had suggested going to Paris together. Each time he had declared, “No, Greece is the thing, I’m sure of it!” or “What about Italy? Italy in the spring before it gets too hot!” or “Harry’s just been to Prague, says it’s gorgeous. We’ve got to check it out.”

They had gone to all these places together and more, taken pictures and even framed some and hung them around the house. Eventually she had stopped suggesting Paris, and it must have been because she noticed. She must know. It must weigh on her, and it leaks out like the ink of that pen caught between her teeth in the occasional sad smile. Eleanor knows that Liam writes songs about Paris, and yet refuses to take her there.

+

Liam is anxious when, towards the end of the week, Eleanor isn’t due at work until ten that morning, and suggests that she and Madeleine come down to breakfast with him. He tells himself that it will be a relief in some ways. When the three of them had met up at Serendipity, Madeleine had mentioned that they had run into a friend of Liam’s at St Patrick’s. He hadn’t asked her to keep it a secret. That would have wrong of him, and it would’ve communicated to her that something about the situation was wrong.

“Yes, it was such a coincidence! We ran into one of my friends from ages ago,” Liam had said, trying to keep things as vague as possible. “Madeleine didn’t think he was _too_ boring.” Madeleine had shrugged, otherwise occupied with trying to decide what to order for dessert. Eleanor had merely raised her eyebrows at him over top of her menu, before disappearing behind it.

But Liam knows that now, this morning, the time for being vague is over. He puts a hand on Madeleine’s shoulder, steadying her as she sleepily steps into her shoes. “I’ve been meeting Père Louis for breakfast downstairs the past couple of days. Would you like to see him again?”

Madeleine perks up a bit at this. “The one who showed me the stained glass windows? Yes, I guess I’d like that.”

“Is that your old friend?” Eleanor asks, grabbing their room key. Liam nods, and she gives him a funny look. “Your friend is a priest?”

“Yes. You’ll see.”

 

The four of them meet under the Waldorf clock, after having paid for their breakfast, as it chimes out eight steady beats to mark the time. Louis is happy to see Madeleine again. “Mademoiselle Madeleine!” he greets her, pronouncing her name the French way. 

She beams, fully awake now. “Bonjour Père Louis.”

“Ah mais, tu parles le français?”

“Oui, mais un peu. Je l’en étude à l’école.”

Louis turns to Liam in astonishment. “Liam, did you know that your daughter speaks excellent French?”

“Yes,” he chuckles. “Only eight years old, and she’s re-teaching me all the French I tried to learn.”

“You must be very proud,” Louis says, and turns to Eleanor to include her.

“Actually, I took German in school,” Eleanor pipes up. “So I can’t really participate. But yes, we’re rather proud.”

“German? You’re braver than I ever was,” Louis comments. “I’ve got the Romance languages down, but I never could manage German. I think it’s the accent.” He smiles at her. “I’m sorry, I don’t think we’ve properly met. Liam has told me so much about you these past couple of days, all good things, I assure you. I’m Père Louis.”

“He’s told me almost nothing about you, I’m sorry to say. I’m Eleanor.”

“I’m sorry, I’m completely crap with introductions,” Liam apologizes. “Eleanor is an extremely well-respected journalist, I know this because people always say that to me in a tone of wonder when I mention that I’m married to her. And Père Louis is actually the Archbishop of Paris.”

It’s the word Paris that does it. Louis probably won’t catch it, but Liam sees a flickering in her eyes, like a lightbulb being turned on. Her smile freezes for a second, and Liam has a moment of panic that her private sadness will spill out in public. But Eleanor is a professional, and she successfully turns it into a real smile.

“I’ve met loads of people through my job, but never an archbishop before. I’m not quite sure how to behave.”

“Let’s all sit down,” Liam suggests, setting a hand on Eleanor’s shoulder. He feels her tense beneath his touch. “It will give us time to collect ourselves in the presence of His Archbishopness.”

“Oh honestly, it’s only eight in the morning, Liam,” Louis mock scolds. “Must you get such a head start on your awful jokes?”

“Yes, I think I must. Considering I’ve learned from you.”

Eleanor sits down directly across from Louis, Liam suspects, to take in as full a picture of him as she can. Liam sits down across from Madeleine, passes her a blueberry muffin and a bottle of juice. She gives him a little smile in thanks, but gets up out of her seat, apparently busy with other plans. She creeps closer to Louis’ seat, and rests a hand on the arm of his chair. He sets his drink down, and looks at her expectantly.

“Last time, you asked me what I’d like to call you,” she begins.

“That’s right, I did,” Louis recalls. “Have you decided?”

“Yes,” she beams at him. “Is it alright if I call you Uncle Père Louis? Like Uncle Zayn, Uncle Niall, and Uncle Harry?” Liam and Eleanor exchange a glance. This is unexpected. “Because I thought about it, and you’re like them, aren’t you?”

“I’m a little bit like them, I suppose. As an old friend of your dad’s.” Madeleine nods once emphatically, as if to say _exactly_. “It’s okay with me if you want to call me that, as long as it’s okay with your parents.” Louis manages to flash a hesitant glance Liam’s way without letting Madeleine notice.

“Of course it’s alright,” Eleanor answers, her voice smooth. “That’s sweet of you, Madeleine.”

Madeleine shrugs at her mother like it’s nothing. “He was nice to me.” Then she turns back to Louis with a gleam in her eye, like she’s just made a brilliant new friend. “Uncle Niall is my favorite one,” she confesses.

Liam laughs. “He’s only your favorite because he orders dessert first when he takes you out to eat.” She gives him an unimpressed look, like maybe he should start letting her order dessert first at every meal. And he would, Liam really would, if weren’t his job to know better.

“I’ll tell you a secret,” Louis leans into her conspiratorially. “Uncle Niall was my favorite, too.” Madeleine’s face lights up, and they share a smile, absolutely confident in each other. “Although, Uncle Harry was quite funny,” Louis picks up his tea, and adds in a lower voice, “and Uncle Zayn was so kind.”

“Madeleine, darling,” Eleanor breaks in. “Please sit in your chair. It’s rude to keep standing in Père Louis’ space like that.”

“Eat your breakfast, honey,” Liam adds. “Uncle Niall wouldn’t want you to miss it.” 

Madeleine heaves a sigh, but she can’t argue with that reasoning. Eleanor gives Louis a polite, apologetic smile. “So, did you know them well?” she asks him. “The three lunatics?” Her tone is light, but Liam can tell that underneath her skin she’s itching all over.

“I only met Harry and Niall once. We all went to dinner together one night,” Louis explains in a careful voice. Liam sits back in his chair. He hates that dinner. He loves that dinner. “I did know Zayn, though. I met up with him a couple of times. But, mainly, I was Liam’s friend. It was me and Liam.”

“I see,” she looks between the two of them. “Just you and Liam.” 

“And Paris,” Louis adds. “It all was about Paris, really.”

It’s the exact wrong thing to say, although there’s no way Louis could know that. Liam’s chest aches suddenly for Eleanor, and for Louis. They’re trying, but they can’t quite get it right. And it’s Liam’s fault. How could the two of them have a chance, when he hadn’t even properly introduced them? He feels the hair on the back of his neck prickling, and something like a shiver starting at the tip of his spine, as though he wants Eleanor and Louis to have a chance.

Eleanor is digging through the leather wristlet she had brought downstairs instead of her regular handbag. She takes out a tube of lipstick, and reapplies the layer that has come off onto the lid of her coffee cup like it’s a coat of armor. 

“Oooh, Mum!” Madeleine exclaims. “Can I try on the lipstick too?”

“Sure, lean over here, and part your lips for me.” Eleanor demonstrates how Madeleine should arrange her face, and Madeleine does her best to mirror her mother. Eleanor swipes a layer on her top and bottom lip. It’s not very pigmented, a pink that’s more shine than anything else. “Good, now smack your lips together” Eleanor instructs, and Madeleine does so with a smile. 

“I’m not sure I approve of that at all,” Liam interrupts their ritual. He’s kidding a little bit, but really kind of not. Madeleine’s face falls ever so slightly, and Eleanor turns to look at him, a hardness in her eyes. On the other side of Liam, Louis shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

“She wanted to try it,” Eleanor says, her tone perfectly controlled, and Liam knows it’s because she’s working hard to keep it that way. “Besides, it’s not really up to you.” She stands up, then. “Come on Madeleine, I think we’re finished with breakfast. It was so nice to meet you, Père Louis,” she says. Then she’s gone, and Liam feels it like a winter wind ripping through the center of his chest.

“Oh dear,” Louis begins, after a minute. “I’ve upset your lovely wife.”

“No,” Liam shakes his head. “I’ve upset my lovely wife.”

“No, I upset her. Initially. You might not have helped though,” and he nudges Liam’s hand lightly with his own.

“I couldn’t stop myself,” Liam buries his face in his hands, and then peers out through his fingers, as though he’s eight years old himself. “Marriage, it’s so…” Liam trails off, and Louis just shakes his head, unable to help supply the rest. “Sometimes it’s amazing, and other times, it’s just so bizarre. You can’t help picking away at this other person, at their core, even though you know that neither of you will like the reaction.”

“That actually sounds like most things in life, I wouldn’t be too worried. Not yet, anyway.” He pries one of Liam’s hands away from his face until his arm is resting on the table. Liam lets his other arm fall too. “I’d like to see you again, Liam, while we’re both still here in New York. I’d like to keep having breakfast like this. But, that is, only if it’s okay. You’re not alone in this marriage, but three people is quite a lot to balance. It needs to be okay,” he repeats. Louis’ tone is soft and gentle, whereas Eleanor had been hard and terse, but that doesn’t necessarily make his words any easier to swallow. Liam looks at him, both afraid of the emotions his face might be giving away, and not caring. “Let me know,” Louis says, and then he leaves, too.

Liam is left with no choice but to make his way back to their suite. As he crosses the common living room space, he can hear Madeleine singing softly to herself in her own room. So she’s alright, then. He hears nothing from the master bedroom, and he knocks, and opens the door as calmly as he can.

Eleanor is standing on her side of the bed, tossing various items into her handbag (black leather Céline), a pen caught between her teeth.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that. That’s the hotel’s pen,” Liam says, not angrily, just sort of hopefully.

“I’m concentrating,” she grits out without looking up at him.

“You’re upset,” he offers.

This is enough to have her removing the pen from between her teeth, and tossing it into her bag with everything else. “I’m not upset,” she says matter-of-factly. 

“Eleanor,” he starts, and closes the door behind him, taking a step into the room.

“No!” she cries. “Don’t explain, don’t say anything. You don’t need to. I understand now. I understand everything.” Liam stares at her. “The Archbishop of Paris!” She bursts out with a mirthless laugh, and it’s not the laugh he loves to hear from her, not at all. “Niall and Harry might know everyone in Great Britain and Ireland between them, but I think you take the cake with that one, Liam.”

“It’s not like that,” Liam protests. “It’s not a game like that.” He sits down at the edge of the bed, turning his back to her. “Besides,” he says to the room at large, “he wasn’t the archbishop in the beginning. Not back then.”

“Of course not.” Eleanor sits down at the edge of the bed about a foot away from him, clutching her handbag to her chest like a shield. They don’t look at each other. “It’s easy to see, though.”

“See what?”

“How he would have risen so quickly like that. You can see how a congregation would fall under his spell. How a little girl who wanted to look at the stained glass windows would fall for him, too. How a young man supposedly in Paris with his friends, but alone, really, would absolutely need him.”

Liam sucks in a breath and looks over at her. She’s already looking at him, her sad smile dripping down her face. 

“I’ve fallen for him, too,” she says simply. “That’s the really irritating thing about it. I like him. I don’t especially know why. Maybe because he was nice to my daughter, or maybe because he’s close with my husband in a way that’s obviously meaningful. Maybe it’s his eyes. Or maybe it’s because he was so polite to me about not speaking French.” She laughs again, her hollow laugh.

“You’re upset,” Liam says in a lower tone this time.

“Stop repeating that, Liam. It’s boring.” She stands up and adjusts the handles on her purse.

“Are you leaving now?”

“Yes. Remember, we have reservations at The Arlington Club on the Upper East Side at eight. It’s a steakhouse, so I’m sure we’ll be able to find something on the menu for Madeleine. Try to get her to rest this afternoon if you can. And say hello to Niall for me if you check in with him today.” She rattles this off in a perfectly normal, business-like tone as she opens their bedroom door.

“Eleanor, wait!” Liam cries. She’s able to compartmentalize everything in her life as easily as she does her handbag, but Liam has never been as good at that kind of thing. He can’t stand this sudden normalcy. “I wanted to know… Should I… ?”

She stands in the doorway, surveying him. “Liam, we’ve never been the type of couple to police each other’s every move, and I don’t intend to start now. Neither of us would want that. I shouldn’t even need to tell you to be careful, because you’re a careful sort of person.” She pauses here to take a breath. “I’m not upset. It’s just that I’m still getting used to it. I’m getting used to the idea of three people in a marriage.” With that, she leaves him for the second time that morning.

Liam remains at the edge of the master bed for a long time, that hollow laugh echoing in his ears. He looks down at his left hand, and gives his wedding ring an experimental twist. Liam hadn’t wanted anything fussy, just a simple gold band. But now he’s struck by the incongruity of such a simple object signifying something so important. He gives his ring another twist, and then pulls it back into place at the base of his finger, wondering at how both Louis and Eleanor, without even meaning to, had managed to communicate such similar ideas about marriage to him.

+

When Eleanor returns from work later that evening, she brushes her hand casually across Liam’s shoulder in greeting, and then crashes onto the master bed almost immediately, barely even getting her scarf and jacket off. Madeleine is already napping in her own bedroom, and Liam walks back and forth between each room checking on the two of them. They’re lying in nearly identical positions, brown hair spilling out around them, their faces smashed into the pillow, sleeping hard. 

Liam closes both bedroom doors so that he’s alone in their central living room, and turns on some quiet jazz music. He likes jazz because it’s something he doesn’t feel compelled to sing along to; instead, he can absorb the different rhythms, feel them in his bones. It’s a different way of experiencing music. 

During the day, he and Madeleine had walked all over midtown doing Christmas shopping, it’s no wonder she’s passed out. But Liam is still feeling an unshakeable, restless energy. He should use this downtime to work on some of the new album, but he knows what he would rather do instead. He calculates the time difference, and then picks up his mobile.

“Vas happening, New York?” a familiar voice says, after only a couple of rings.

“I can’t believe you answered the phone that way, are you drunk?”

“Shut up, you were hoping I’d say that. And, no, unfortunately I’m sober. In fact, I just got off a conference call for work from the States, how funny that you’re calling me now as well.”

“You’re in demand, Malik. A conference call, eh? Is everything alright with work?”

“Yeah. More than alright, it’s kind of brilliant, actually. I’ll be going to New York myself in March to give a presentation at Columbia, we just settled it.”

“Holy shit, Zayn! That’s fantastic.”

“Yeah, hopefully. They’re putting together some kind of panel in conjunction with the Met. There will be plenty of other speakers as well, art historians, and all that. We’ll see, but I’m looking forward to it. And now you’ll be able to give me tips about where to hang out in the city.”

“I spent a good portion of this afternoon in the Disney store, so I’m really not sure I’m the best person to ask for advice. We haven’t done all that much yet.”

“Really?” a cautious note creeps into Zayn’s voice here. “You’ve been there almost a week now. How’s it going?”

“It’s…” Liam flounders. He really should’ve thought this through more before making the call, should’ve come up with a plan of attack. “It’s alright.”

“Has something happened?”

“No. Well, not yet.”

“Liam, you have me worried, man. What the fuck is going on over there?”

“Nothing has happened!” Liam insists, slightly hysterically. “But, the thing is, he’s here. He’s here in New York, Zayn.” The line is silent for a long moment. It’s been twelve years since their summer in Paris together, and Liam and Zayn have rarely alluded to it since. Zayn knows that Liam has yet to revisit the city, although he and Niall go on holiday there together regularly. He knows why Liam has a map of Paris tucked away in his nightstand drawer, but never makes the trip. And so, Liam trusts instinctively that Zayn knows exactly to whom he’s referring. “Zayn?” Liam asks, just to be sure.

“Sorry,” Zayn says quickly. “It’s just, he’s in _New York_? How? Why?” 

“Yeah, he explained it to me. It’s kind of a long story, but it’s like a sort of priest exchange program. Except he isn’t just a priest anymore, he’s a bishop. The Archbishop of Paris.”

Zayn gives a crazed laugh. “Archbishop!” he screeches out. “Priest exchange program! He’s in fucking New York City at the same time as you! I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, but I don’t know how to react to this. I actually do need a drink now.”

“I need several,” Liam says, wryly.

“Oh my god,” Zayn cries, a sudden thought occurring to him. “Has Eleanor met him?”

“Yes.” The line goes quiet again, as this answer seems to snap Zayn out of his hysteria. “You can see why I had to call,” Liam continues. “I couldn’t just text. I had to _tell_ you. I’m really glad you answered.”

“I’m glad too. Shit, Liam. I’m sorry.”

“You keep saying that, and I don’t know why. You don’t have to apologize.”

“I’m sorry I can’t be there with you. This time. I’m not sure I was much help last time, anyway, but at least I was there.”

“You were everything,” Liam emphasizes, his voice going hoarse. They both fall silent, and Liam remembers long, unforgiving jogs through Paris, softened by quiet, kind gestures from one of his oldest friends. “Eleanor and Louis met today. They were both trying so hard with each other until, well, until Eleanor didn’t feel like trying anymore. She got up and left. It could’ve gone a lot worse, all things considered, but I still felt terrible. I feel terrible in general because…”

“Because?”

“I want to hang onto them both.”

Zayn sucks in a sharp breath. “Liam,” and his name has never sounded so much like a warning.

“I know, but I’m not an idiot twenty-five-year-old anymore. And this isn’t Paris.”

“No, nothing can ever be Paris,” Zayn says, a little wistfully. “Maybe that’s a good thing, and maybe it’s a sad thing. But Liam, why did you call me? Why did you tell me this, really?”

Liam feels a twinge of embarrassment. “I’m not asking permission, and I’m not trying to justify anything, either.”

“I’m not judging you, mate, truly I’m not. But, Liam, are you _sure_? Things are different for you now. You saw that it wasn’t going particularly well today, but you still want to keep trying, and I just have to ask _why_?” 

“Zayn, I know. I hear the way it sounds myself.” 

“Do you?”

“ _Yes_. I had to tell someone who would understand, and you understand a little too well.”

“I do. I really do understand.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry again.”

“I won’t. Shit, I just kind of lost my mind, didn’t I? You scared me, though. And it’s not that I think he’s a bad sort of guy. The opposite, in fact. It’s just… complicated.”

“Understatement of the century.”

“Wait a sec,” and Liam can tell Zayn is holding his mobile away from his ear. “Niall’s home,” he says coming back on the line. “He was recording with Josh. Well, to be more accurate, they were down at the pub. But I’m sure they started the day at the studio. Anyway, I should go.”

“Yeah, you should. Say hi to him for me.”

“Liam,” there’s a pause. “I’m gonna tell him. Is that okay?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“That means he’ll—”

“—Tell Harry, I know. It’s fine. I wanted to tell you first, but I don’t mind if they know.”

“Alright. Keep me updated. Text me every day, call me, fucking write me a postcard. I mean it.”

“I will,” Liam promises. “I know that you’ll worry if I don’t, now _go_ , I can hear Niall calling your name.” Niall actually is calling for Zayn, who laughs, and says goodbye to Liam. 

Liam sets his mobile down on the coffee table. He stares at the screen until it dims and then finally goes blank. His music is still playing softly—Billy Taylor on the piano—it’s not loud enough to really fill the room with rhythm, but it’s enough to get inside his head. He realizes that he hadn’t answered Zayn’s question, his _why_. They both already know the answer, anyway. 

When Liam reaches for his phone again, it’s deliberate.

 _heyy! :) free tomorrow afternoon? i always go 4 a jog in central park_

_A jog. Outside. You’re aware it’s December ???_

_hard worrk! that’s what makes it funnn_

_Your definition of fun needs work_

This is followed by the name of a restaurant and an address. _Meet up after your jog ?_

_okayy comprmise! I have time for drinks bfore dinner. see u then_

+

Everyone in New York City is in a hurry all the time. The noise of the beeping of horns (as if honking has ever helped move traffic, Liam thinks) and the insistent clacking of high heels on the sidewalks form a constant pulse. “This place is a constant traffic jam,” Eleanor comments one day. But Liam begins to think that, it isn’t that people are stuck in rush hour traffic. Rather, it’s that the city itself is sentient, and it’s in a rush, creating obvious chaos and gridlock. Liam wonders what it could be rushing toward.

This energy had been disorienting when they had first landed, the sprawl of JFK airport stretching before them with the city beyond. But Liam has quickly learned to feed off of it, especially for his afternoon jogs. It’s the perfect schedule, as it gives Eleanor the chance to spend time with Madeleine after work, and Liam the chance to clear his head. 

Louis had made fun of his outdoor running, but Liam finds the cold air invigorating. Given the cold, combined with the intrinsic energy of the city, Liam thinks his New York workouts have been some of his best. He doesn’t go in for harsh routines anymore the way he had done in Paris: running in an effort to escape his own skin, constantly checking behind him to see if he had finally done it, if he had outrun himself. Here, he keeps his eyes straight ahead and focused, although he can see the outline of the Plaza Hotel beyond the tall trees, can’t forget for a second that he’s in New York. 

It’s with this clear mindset that he heads to the restaurant Louis had suggested. It’s a small place on E. 58th Street, and Liam probably would’ve walked right by it if he weren’t looking out for the address specifically. It’s narrow inside, with tables crowded closely together, even by Manhattan standards. Wine bottles with labels alluding to French and Italian regions line dark wood shelves along the walls, and Liam smiles to himself. Of course Louis would frequent this place. It’s the most European restaurant he’s yet seen in the city.

Louis is seated at a table in the corner, wearing a black shirt, and his signature white collar. He’s turning what looks like a set of rosary beads over in his hand, but he puts it away and stands when he spots Liam. The restaurant is too crowded for them to really greet each other, and Liam isn’t sure what he would do anyway: kiss on the cheek? Hug? Shake hands? It all seems like both too much and not enough. The two of them settle for exchanging smiles, and take their seats on opposite sides of the table.

“Cold enough out there for you?” Louis asks, glancing over the wine list.

“I didn’t realize cold weather was such a problem for you,” Liam retorts mildly.

“Hmm,” Louis considers, then passes the wine menu to Liam. “I see what this is. It’s some sort of challenge to me, to get me to be as fit, or as daring as you, or some other mad thing. But you won’t get me that way. I won’t fall for it.”

“You’re quite confident. Both that I’m challenging you, and that I won’t win.” 

“Prove me wrong, then.”

“Now you’re directly challenging me to prove that I wasn’t challenging you! Order us a bottle of wine. I need to be drinking before this conversation becomes any more absurd.”

Louis’ smile goes all crooked, and he could be twenty-seven again. His eyes flash, all full and maddening, and he knows _everything_. Liam sits back in his seat as Louis orders them a bottle of Pinot Noir. He’s beginning to understand this visceral need of his to be around Louis. It’s a consuming urge to surprise Louis, to chip away at that look in his eyes—that steely, all-knowing edge—until it’s something new, until he’s this new version of Louis that neither of them have seen before. He thinks that Louis does the same thing to him.

Liam tries to shake himself out of these thoughts, takes a sip of his freshly poured wine. It isn’t sweet with the fruity taste of grapes, but deep and spicy with the flavors of the earth where the grapes had grown. “I’m surprised you’re not with your American benefactors tonight,” Liam teases. “Have they given you the night off?”

“I do have some free time to myself, you know,” Louis insists. “No, actually, I met them for lunch today.” 

Liam can’t help giving a little smirk. “You really are straight out of a novel.”

“You’ve never read one. How would you know?” The retort comes easily to Louis, languidly sipping on his wine. “Anyway, I don’t want to talk about myself anymore. I want to talk about you. Don’t tell me about your daughter, or your wife. Tell me about yourself, for once, Liam.”

“There’s not much to tell.”

“I won’t fall for that either. Even in Paris,” Louis presses on, “we talked a lot about me. And when you tried to tell me things, it often became about what I could or couldn’t do. When you tried to communicate with me, I couldn’t always respond.”

Liam’s shoulders tense, and he sits up in his chair. They’re real adults now. They can talk about this, about a kiss that happened under the streetlamps on a Parisian boulevard. It had been a paradoxical kiss: forbidden but real, fleeting and infinite, all at once. “Twenty-five years old maybe isn’t that young,” Liam tries to explain. “But I felt so young that summer. So young, and so naïve. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Louis holds up a hand. “I didn’t bring this up to force you to apologize. We’re beyond that by now. I just thought, after all this time, maybe we could communicate a little differently. A little bit better, even.”

“The way I communicate most of the time these days is through music,” Liam offers. Louis is giving him the rare gift of taking him seriously. Liam figures he should try to give a serious response. “I sing. I love singing, I really do. I help a little with production too, although Niall is better at that. And I write now, as well.” 

Louis raises an eyebrow. “A writer who doesn’t read?”

“I read music.”

“Ah, you never specified!”

“No, _you_ never specified.” Louis nods, as if to say _touché_ , and he looks somehow pleased with Liam. “I didn’t set out to write. I was only doing it for myself. It sounds cheesy, but I suppose it was like keeping a sort of journal for me. Then Harry found it, the nosy bastard. Instead of keeping it to himself, he showed Zayn and Niall, and the three of them ganged up on me. Zayn said it was all well-written, and Niall said he had to produce it. Since then, I’ve written one album, and now I’m supposed to start work on another. So, it came about in a bit of an embarrassing way, but I really love what I do. It gives me a lot of freedom, both creatively, and the freedom in my schedule to pick my daughter up from school, or travel here to support my wife.”

“Liam, you do realize, you’re still talking an awful lot about other people, right? Your family… your entire family, I mean, ” Louis must be including Zayn, Niall, and Harry.

“If you’re talking about the three stooges, they’re not the type of people you can easily get rid of. It’s a lifetime deal with them, I think. And I don’t mind, to be honest. I’m happy they’re around.”

“No, of course. I understand. I’m just wondering, how do you do it? Support so many people all of the time?”

“Père Louis, you have four sisters, as I recall. And you’re an archbishop now with an entire diocese relying on you. I think you understand, maybe more than you realize, or more than you’re letting on.”

Louis narrows his eyes for a moment, like he’s disappointed he doesn’t have a comeback on the tip of his tongue. Then he merely raises his glass to Liam before taking another sip. 

They finish the bottle off between the two of them, chatting about New York. (“I’ve been to an American football match,” Louis says, “The New York Giants. Do you know they actually stop play for commercial breaks? It’s the most ludicrous thing. The entire game, as they call it here, took four hours!”)

Later on, Liam notices his mobile buzzing, and he checks to see two messages from Eleanor.

_don’t forget about dinner! it’s the place, you know the one. you were laughing about the name. Momofuku Noodle Bar._

_with those editors from Condé Nast! Madeleine & I are in a taxi on our way._

“Oh, shit!” Liam exclaims. His cheeks feel too warm, and his head is fuzzy. “I’m about to be late for dinner. With my wife and some important magazine editors.”

“Where are you going?” Louis asks. 

“Some restaurant called Momofuku, I think. Does that sound right? Is that a place?”

“It is indeed, an extremely trendy place. It’s in the East Village though. When are you supposed to be there?”

“Five minutes from now.”

“Right,” Louis springs into action, seemly waving the server over, and paying the bill in one swift motion. “Text your wife, tell her you’re on your way, but you’re running late. She’ll appreciate the honesty. Now let’s get you out of here, and into a taxi.”

Louis holds up his jacket for him, and leads him out of the restaurant by the arm. Outside, yellow taxi cabs zoom by in a blur of yellow, electrifying the city streets even through the dark winter evening. Maybe it’s the thrumming energy of the city, or maybe it’s the Pinot. Maybe it’s none of that at all. Maybe it’s just Liam. But a dangerous and perfectly simple thought occurs to him. It’s already spilling out of his mouth before he can stop himself. “Come with me,” he says to Louis. “Come to dinner.”

“Thank you, but no.” Louis responds, turning away to look down the street for another cab.

“Yes,” Liam insists.

“I couldn’t intrude.”

“I’m inviting you, it’s not intruding.”

“Liam, you’re already late. If you show up with me as well… I’m not sure it will look good.”

“We’re having dinner with big shot editors, and you’re the Archbishop of Paris with a wealthy American benefactor. It will look fantastic. You’ll probably land the cover of Vanity Fair yourself.”

“None of that is at all to the point. Red wine is clearly not your drink. It turns you into an insane person.” 

Louis manages to flag down a cab going in the proper direction. “Right,” he says, climbing into the backseat next to Liam. “I’m coming with you because someone had better be sure you arrive at the restaurant in one piece.” He gives Liam a look that’s a mixture of exasperation and fondness, and then gives the address to the driver.

 

Madeleine lets out a surprised shriek when she sees her father arriving with Louis in tow. Eleanor merely raises an eyebrow, and then introduces Liam and Louis to two people: a man and woman who are both wearing thick-framed glasses and scarves around their necks. Liam still feels hazy around the edges, and pays little attention to the two identical editors. (It doesn’t much matter since, as he predicted, Louis is fantastic at keeping them entertained all by himself). He’s just happy to be sitting in a warm restaurant on a cold night, with his daughter and his wife next to him, and Louis sitting across the table. 

After they’ve ordered appetizers, Eleanor reaches around Madeleine, runs a hand down his arm. She finds his hand and gives it a squeeze, like a question. He thinks she’s probably asking _Are you drunk? Are you going to make it through this?_ He squeezes back, and hopes she knows that he means _yes, I’m quite drunk, but this is nice_. 

It’s possibly the busiest restaurant Liam has ever seen, and there are so many distractions and other people around, that Louis and Eleanor don’t need to interact much. Louis and Madeleine spend a good amount of time having a sword fight with their chopsticks across the table. But, at one point, Louis pushes his plate of pork buns toward Eleanor with a nod and a small smile. She considers him, takes one, and then gives him a shy smile in return. It’s just a small gesture, nothing, really. But it sends a thrill down Liam’s spine.

At the end of the night, the identical editors suggest something called Milk Bar for dessert, but Eleanor puts on a smile and says, “I think we’d better get this one home,” with a nod to Madeleine. It isn’t like her, Eleanor _loves_ dessert. And Madeleine is probably the most alert of any of them at the moment. But, Liam has been drinking water throughout dinner, and has broken through his red wine daze. He doesn’t miss the way Eleanor is rubbing at her eyes as carefully as she can so as not to ruin her makeup. He understands how exhausted she must be from negotiating all night between work colleagues, not to mention her husband, and his odd priest friend.

“El, darling, I’ll get us a taxi,” he says, and she gives him a grateful look.

Outside the restaurant, Louis extricates both Eleanor and himself from the identical Condé editors, who have developed quite an interest in him. He bundles the editors into a taxi, and then stops in front of Eleanor. He appears lost for words, which isn’t typical for him. 

“Thank you so much for bringing my husband to dinner,” she says with a hint of a smirk. Then she leans in closer to him, her breath clouding between them. “I think you were rather a success tonight.”

“I do try,” he says, but he still seems somehow overwhelmed in front of her. “Thank you for letting me crash your dinner.” To Madeleine he says, “Au revoir, Mademoiselle Madeleine, Bonne soirée!” Finally, he turns to Liam, to whom he doesn’t say anything. He merely puts a hand on Liam’s shoulder, and looks him in the eye. It’s one of his mercurial looks that Liam can’t read, one of the looks he wants to break through like ice. Louis gives his shoulder a squeeze—like he knows what Liam’s thinking, but can’t let it happen right now—and drops his hand. 

“Are you headed back to the Waldorf?” Liam asks. “You should share our taxi, of course.”

“Thank you, but no,” he says for the second time that night. “I’m going for a little walk. Thank you again for dinner, though. Have a lovely night to yourselves, the three of you!” Louis walks away from them before they can protest, his black silhouette blending in with the night.

In the taxi, Eleanor leans over Madeleine and rests her head on Liam’s shoulder. It’s the closest they’ve been in a few days. He can smell her shampoo—she had insisted on bringing her usual shampoo from home instead of relying on hotel toiletries—and he’s grateful for it now. She smells like home. Liam leans his head on hers, and melts into it.

+

The next morning, Liam is still in the throes of a hazy dream when he feels someone shaking his arm. “What?” he says with his eyes still closed. “I’m almost awake, what is it?”

“Almost awake? Well, good morning to you, too.”

He cracks one eye open. Eleanor is perched on the edge of the bed, leaning over him. Her long hair falls freely past her face and grazes his arm. He opens both eyes to focus on her. “Good morning, winter sunshine,” he smiles. “Hang on, how come you’re awake before me? Is something wrong?”

“Don’t worry, everything’s fine,” she assures, meaning that Madeleine is fine. She pats him on the chest, and lets her hand linger there. “I was just wondering, are you meeting your friend, Père Louis, for breakfast this morning?”

“No,” Liam yawns. “Not on weekends. It’s kind of funny, but weekends are always his busiest days.”

“Right, of course. I should’ve realized. It’s just, I had an idea.” Liam shifts and sits up in bed to get a better look at her. “I have the day off, and you know my friend Dani is in town too.”

“Yeah. I’ve always liked Dani.”

“I know. Anyway, we’re planning to go shopping. Obviously Dani would love to see Madeleine, but we were planning on lunch at Bergdorf’s,” Eleanor raises an eyebrow. “You know, a liquid lunch. So, I thought maybe you and Père Louis could hang out with her together. She would like that.”

Liam rubs at his eyes. Eleanor and Louis had seemed to get along reasonably well last night at dinner, but he wasn’t expecting Eleanor to go so far as to suggest that he and Louis get together. “Yeah, alright,” he finds himself saying. “I’ll text him, and see if he’s free.”

Eleanor leans in for a quick kiss, so she must be pleased. “I just don’t want Madeleine to get bored, you know?”

“I think you’re implying that spending time with me alone is boring.”

“Let the record show, I didn’t say that. You did!” She gives a soft laugh, and goes in for another kiss, slower this time. She’s already brushed her teeth, Liam can taste the spearmint cutting through him. 

“Why are you up so early on your day off, anyway?” He asks her, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“I’m planning our shopping itinerary for the day!”

“Oh, of course, I should have known.” He rolls his eyes, and grabs a pillow from her side of the bed.

“Yes, you should ha—aargh!” she shrieks as he hits her in the side of the head with the pillow. She makes a move to grab it away from him, and he lets her take it. “No fucking way, Liam Payne!” She yells as she smacks him across the face. 

“Alright, alright!” he throws his arms up. “I give up, I’m contacting my priest!”

Eleanor lowers the pillow and considers him with an odd gleam in her eyes. “Yes, you’d better.” But she smiles at him as she shimmies off the bed and wanders over to their closet.

Liam shakes his head as though he’s got water stuck in his ears. He’ll probably go for a run in a bit, which is much earlier in the day than usual for him. He knows that he’ll need it to settle his nerves and focus, as this has been one of the most confusing wakeup calls he can remember ever receiving.

 

It turns out that Louis is indeed free that afternoon. He appears in the doorway of their suite, bundled up in his black peacoat and red scarf. He immediately hands over treats he’s brought from Milk Bar. (“None of you realized what you were missing out on last night!” he insists.) He forces something called a Compost Cookie onto Liam, which Liam places aside with a wary glance at the ingredients.

Eleanor steps out of the master bedroom just then. Her hair is swept off her face, and she’s fastening in a pair of sterling silver earrings. This is a harder version of Eleanor—lacquered over—the version that goes out to take on Manhattan. She looks much less soft than the Eleanor that had woken Liam up that morning, and he doesn’t know how to react to her, especially not with Louis in the room as well.

“I’d better be going, or I’ll be late,” she announces, winding a Burberry check scarf around her neck “Have fun, Madeleine darling. Take care of Daddy.” She walks up to Liam, but turns to Louis. “He wouldn’t tell me what he has planned for this afternoon, so be careful.” Then she turns to Liam with a funny little grin, kisses him on the cheek, and closes the door behind her. 

 

Liam and Madeleine bundle up to match Louis—with promises to try the Compost Cookie later—and the three of them exit the Waldorf onto Park Avenue. Liam leads them uptown, wanting to stay on Park for as long as possible to avoid the extreme crowds on Fifth. They walk about ten blocks, with Madeleine in the middle, clutching Liam’s hand through a pair of purple mittens. Finally, Liam inclines his head meaning they should cross. The crowds of people become noticeably more dense as they make their way towards Madison, with lines to get in some stores actually snaking around the block.

Liam’s stomach twists into more knots with each busy store they pass by, as he begins to think that maybe this isn’t one of his best ideas, that, in fact, it’s the worst possible idea for a Saturday afternoon before Christmas. But as they pass the Apple store on Fifth Avenue, Louis realizes what the destination is, and he looks over at Liam with an approving grin. Liam feels the knots in his stomach loosen as he returns the smile.

Madeleine has never heard of FAO Schwarz before, but she recognizes a toy store when she sees one. She can tell that this one is important from the gilded lettering on the sign, and the big statue of a teddy bear holding building blocks with the letters F A and O. She stops walking, looks up at Liam in wonder, and then looks over at Louis as though to confirm that this is real. Louis gives her a nod, and that’s what seals it. She pulls Liam forward into the store, and then lets go of his hand, standing a little bit apart from him like she needs to be alone to absorb the particular energy of this toy sanctuary. 

“Father of the Year,” Louis nudges him. “You’ve got that locked up.”

“Not quite yet. It all hinges on what I agree to buy for her.”

“Please. You’ll buy her anything and everything she wants.”

“Am I that easy?”

“Yes.” 

“Daddy!” Madeleine is dancing around him in a circle now. “I want to look at the Barbies. But I also want to look at the Legos, I see a sign for them! And what kind of stuffed animals do you think they have?” 

“Whoa, slow down!” Liam grabs her gently by the back of her jacket and she stops. “We have time for everything. You can look at anything you want, alright?” Madeleine simply stares back at him, like it’s too big of a concept, like he’s just told her she can explore the entire universe. 

“I see some stuffed animals over this way,” Louis offers. “Shall we start here?” Madeleine nods and reaches for his hand instead of her father’s. “You know, as a priest, I can manoeuvre us through this crowd more quickly.”

“No you can’t!” Liam laughs at him.

“Your dad doesn’t believe me,” Louis says to Madeleine, with a gravely serious face. “Shall we prove him wrong?”

“Oui!” she exclaims, with a wicked look at Liam.

“You’re turning my own daughter against me, I see. Just so both of you know, I don’t approve of anything that’s happening right now.” 

As it turns out, it actually is somewhat difficult to keep up with Louis through the crowd. He and Madeleine never stop moving, looking at everything from teddy bears, to stuffed elephants, and commenting on all of it between themselves. Liam doesn’t care if Louis is a priest, an Archbishop, or a Cardinal. He’s also definitely a bastard.

“You’re doing this on purpose!” Liam hisses at Louis once he manages to get close enough.

“Weren’t you listening? That was the whole point.”

“But you’re not even wearing your—I don’t know, your Archbishop costume! How do people know?”

“They don’t know anything specifically. I’ve learned how to get what I want, Archbishop costume or not. Besides, you were nervous about the crowds. I knew I could get us through, and I couldn’t resist teasing. I’m sorry.”

Liam stares. He’s certain he hadn’t said anything out loud about being nervous because of the crowd. “How did you…?” Louis just smiles at him, the crinkles around his eyes deepening, and it’s so maddening that he knows everything. Liam shakes his head. “We need a map to get around this place.”

“Ah,” Louis says, something opening up in his eyes. “Always in need of a map.”

Liam feels like he might fall over. All of time seems to be stretching and compressing around him, so that he’s standing here in New York City, and also in the doorway of a dimly lit church on a Parisian boulevard asking a stranger for directions. It hadn’t dawned on Liam right away that he was speaking to a priest, although it should have been obvious. But he had never seen a priest—or anyone, for that matter—with eyes like that, reflecting the strangest combination of both wildness and stability at the same time. All these years later, and Louis still has that same look in his eye. He’s still looking at Liam in the same way, and maybe that’s what’s making the concept of time seem so elastic. 

Liam hadn’t meant to invoke maps, especially not a map of Paris that he keeps in his nightstand drawer next to his bed. And he certainly hadn’t meant to do so in public. “I haven’t needed a map in a long time. I’d forgotten what it was like to be lost like that, what it’s like to be lost and found. I… god, that was so long ago.”

“No,” Louis replies, in an uncharacteristically quiet tone, but Liam hears him. “It was just yesterday.”

Liam feels his face twitching, and he can’t control it. He’s unsure whether he’s going to smile or grimace, or burst into tears, but he thinks he feels his mouth turning upward in a small smile. He’s reminded, of course, of another church in another city. It’s always the same with Louis, no matter what: churches, and blue eyes, and the engulfing haze of incense.

He can’t find it in him to speak, to respond, but Louis must understand, because he takes Liam’s hand in his own. Liam is vaguely aware of everything around them: Christmas carols being broadcast through speakers in the store, the din of the insatiable holiday shopping crowd, the unstoppable roar of the city in general. None of it matters, as he squeezes Louis’ hand, and Louis squeezes back.

Something—or someone, rather—brushes against Liam’s leg. It’s a smaller someone, and it jolts Liam fully back into the present moment.

“Madeleine,” he whispers. Then louder and more desperately: “Madeleine, oh my god!”

“Daddy!” he hears a familiar voice cutting through the chaos, and looks up to see where it’s coming from.

Madeleine is standing on the upper level of the store looking down at the two of them from behind a glass partition. She doesn’t look frightened, or out of place, only mildly annoyed as she motions for the two of them to join her upstairs. She has one hand on her hip, and her brown wavy hair is falling in her face as she looks down. She looks so exactly like her mother in that moment that it makes Liam’s chest ache.

Louis is still holding his hand, which turns out to be useful, since Liam is suddenly incapable of moving. 

“It’s alright,” Louis intones in a low voice, gripping his hand more tightly. “Everything’s alright now, come on. We’re going upstairs, one step at a time.”

Liam follows him without question. Louis is holding onto his right hand, and Liam lets his left arm hang limply at his side, feeling his wedding band burning into his skin like a brand. He thinks he’s finally able to understand some of what Louis must have gone through in Paris, what he must have felt every time he had stepped a little too close to Liam. He had wanted to, Liam knows, because he had felt the hot press of Louis’ mouth on his—full of a desire and a deep need—just for a moment. But the farther Louis had leaned in, the more his Roman collar must have dug into his neck, reminding him of sworn vows. And so, finally, he felt the need to physically push Liam away to find some relief. 

Liam is aware of his wedding ring, and everything that it means, yet, he doesn’t want to push Louis away. But he does break the hand holding as they reach the top of the stairs. He grips Madeleine’s shoulders, and then her face in both of his hands, and kisses her repeatedly on the forehead. She scrunches her entire face in protest.

“Daaad!” she cries, embarrassed by the very public display of affection. “Look, there’s a giant keyboard up here! You stand on it to play, and the keys light up with each note.”

“Is that right?” But he doesn’t take his eyes off her face.

“Yes. _Look_.”

He doesn’t apologize to her, or acknowledge what had just happened, because he can’t explain to his daughter that he hadn’t lost her so much as he had lost himself for a moment, and that it wasn’t the type of “getting lost” for which a map can provide guidance. Instead he follows her instructions, and looks to his left at the famous FAO Schwarz floor keyboard.

He then looks over at Louis, who is standing completely still and contemplating him with a cautious look, as though Liam might fall to pieces. “A keyboard, eh?” Liam says to him. “You game?” Louis merely raises an eyebrow in response.

“Come on, Daddy,” Madeleine grins. “You’ll like this.”

“You know your old man so well.”

Liam and Madeleine step onto the keyboard together, but Louis remains off to the side. He still has that careful look in his eyes, and Liam hates it. He isn’t going to break down, especially not here. Not with this music underneath him, the rhythms of it vibrating out all around him. It’s strange, because Liam has made actual music, recorded in a studio, and listened to the finished product on an album, but he’s never felt quite so powerful as in this moment, with the keys lighting up underneath the pressure of his feet.

“Come on, Uncle Père Louis!” Madeleine calls. Louis looks to Liam, and Liam nods. 

“I haven’t played piano in years. And I think the only thing I ever knew how to play was Chopsticks,” Louis says to Madeleine, but he lets her drag him onto the keyboard.

“It doesn’t matter. It’s just about having fun,” she replies matter-of-factly, and hops across the keys on one foot.

“Oh, it’s about fun? Is that all?” Louis asks, the wild gleam back in his eye. He gets off to a running start and then slides right through Liam’s keys.

Liam can’t help laughing, because Louis is smiling again, and they’ve all got music underfoot. “You’re a menace!” Liam cries.

“Maybe it seems that way to you,” Louis gives a dangerous sounding laugh. “But I think you’re a menace, too.” Liam really can’t argue the point.

 

They each carry one shopping bag home, though it’s all for Madeleine, of course. They collapse in a heap back in the hotel suite, Louis and Liam at opposite ends of the sofa, and Madeleine in an armchair with one of her newest acquisitions: a stuffed elephant.

Louis is quiet, but doesn’t seem inclined to leave just yet. Liam scrolls through his iTunes, looking for a way to fill the room up. The silence isn’t awkward, exactly. But it gives him space to contemplate what exactly had happened today, from Eleanor waking him up with the unexpected request to contact Louis, to panicking that he had lost his eight-year-old in New York City. He lands on Duke Ellington because he figures it’s impossible to go wrong with a classic.

Eleanor breezes into the room a few minutes later with shopping bags of her own. She’s laughing to herself for no reason in particular. It’s her nice laugh; she’s had a good day. Liam sinks back into the couch and smiles, pleased for her.

“FAO Schawrz, eh?” She comments, seeing the other shopping bags as she arranges her own. “Now I see what the big secret was about. Did Daddy buy everything for himself?” she asks Madeleine with a grin. “Or did he spare some for other people?”

“No of course he bought stuff for me!” Madeleine answers earnestly, but then a wicked smile flashes across her face. “I mean, it’s not like it was the Disney store or anything!”

“Hey!” Liam cries, sitting up straight. “You wanted to go there!”

“I suggested it because I know how much you like it there. I knew it would put you in a good mood.”

“It sounds like you’re being nice, but actually you’re just placating me. Unbelievable! Already being placated by my own daughter.”

Louis is looking across the sofa at him with an unbearably understanding smile, and Liam has to look away. “It could be worse,” Louis says. “Believe me, I have four younger sisters, I know.”

“Sisters aren’t the same at all!”

“I didn’t say it was the same,” Louis laughs. “I said it was worse.” Now Eleanor is laughing, and it’s her bright musical laugh again. Only she’s never used it like this before, to laugh about something someone else had said about Liam. “I’d better go, or I’ll actually miss Saturday Evening Mass.” He stands up and stretches.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Liam says, “I had you walking all over the place. I forgot you have work this evening. You’re probably exhausted.”

“Not at all,” Louis wraps his red scarf around his neck. “Thank you for the invite. And thank you, Mademoiselle Madeleine, for encouraging me to play the piano, even though I was quite bad.”

“You were awful! It was great,” Madeleine giggles, and waves goodbye.

Louis stops in front of Eleanor, who is still standing by the shopping bags. “I looked you up, you know. I googled you.”

“Pardon me?”

“Well, Liam said that your articles are the only things he ever reads. I thought he was being facetious, but now I know better. I know that it’s possible to get a proper education from reading just your writing.”

Liam has never seen Eleanor look so truly dumbfounded before, unable to make a smooth recovery. Louis is awfully good. “Such flattery!” is all she can manage to get out. 

“Your piece about revisiting the Irish Peace Process so many years after the treaty was signed,” Louis presses on. “It was wonderful. And it’s why the Clintons wanted you for this job, I’m sure of it.”

“The Clintons wanted me because I was available.”

“No,” Louis shakes his head, absolutely confident in himself and in her. Liam feels that thrill running down his spine again, like a spark. He shivers with it. “I have to leave now, but that isn’t why. And you should know it.”

“Good, please leave!” Eleanor says. “Flattery will only get you so far,” she sounds like she’s teasing, but also like she means it. She walks Louis to the door, closes it behind him, and remains standing there for a long moment.

Madeleine is clutching her elephant to her chest and rubbing at her eyes.

“You can take a nap if you want, honey,” Liam tells her. “We have plenty of time before dinner.” She slides off the chair, humming a sort of assent, and wanders into her room. 

Eleanor comes over to Liam now for the first time since returning from her shopping trip. She sits on the back of the sofa and peers down at him. She smells sharp like perfume samples and a fresh manicure. Duke Ellington is still playing softly to the room, riffing with one hand on the keys, Liam imagines.

“Do you really like him?” he asks, looking up at Eleanor.

“Yes. I told you that I do.”

“I know, but when you said that the other day, it sounded as though you didn’t _want_ to like him. And I understand that. But now… it feels different.”

“Do you not want me to like him?”

“No!” he wraps a hand around her elbow, presses into the soft skin in the crook of the joint there. “That’s not it at all.”

She looks down at him for a moment. Her eyes are soft like they had been that morning, but Liam still isn’t sure what she’s going to say. “I like him. Let’s just leave it at that.” She presses a kiss to his temple, then breaks free of his grip to stand up. “I desperately need a shower before dinner. I tried on every perfume in all of Bergdorf’s, but instead of smelling nice, I’ve ended up smelling like a department store!”

Liam knows he should probably lie down before dinner, but he stays on the sofa instead. He hadn’t told Eleanor about what happened at FAO Schwarz, and he decides that he probably never will. He doesn’t text Zayn about it either. Madeleine won’t say anything about it to anyone because she didn’t consider herself lost. And Liam thinks she’s correct, because she had known exactly where she was the whole time. 

When Liam had first looked for the jardin du Luxembourg on his own, and then stumbled into Église Notre Dame des Champs, he had been alone. And he had left alone, too, that first time. After that, something had shifted. It had been a pair of them, sitting together at brasseries and strolling down the boulevard. Liam discovered that he liked it, that he enjoyed being part of a double act. So much so that, a couple of years later, he had made the choice to pair up again. He’d chosen to have a joint bank account and a two-car garage, for better or for worse. He had made the choice to never be alone, he was satisfied with it, with the stability it provided. But now everything is unpredictable, as his two private worlds are colliding in the controlled chaos that is New York City, and his ordinary routine is taking on a new rhythm that he can’t yet parse out.

\+ 

Liam and Louis meet for breakfast again on Monday. Louis can only stay for ten minutes as he has a meeting, but they chat casually about the Sunday they had spent apart. It’s nice. On Tuesday, Louis lingers, and the two of them drift into a comfortable silence, with Louis sitting sideways in his chair, his arm slung over the back, and Liam with both hands curled around his coffee cup for warmth. When the Waldorf clock chimes eight-thirty, Louis raises his eyebrows, as though that’s his cue. He twists his customary red scarf around his neck, and promises to see Liam tomorrow.

Later that afternoon, Liam notices that Madeleine’s cheeks are more pink than usual when she wakes up from a nap, and her face stays flushed all night. Wednesday morning, Madeleine wakes up with a full-blown cough/cold that has Eleanor considering cancelling her interviews for the day.

“You’re nearly finished, it’s no use cancelling now,” Liam says, standing in the doorway of the master bathroom, as she brushes her teeth. “I’ll be with Madeleine all day, and I’ll text you updates every hour. I’ll especially text you if she gets worse.”

“ _Call_ me if she gets worse,” Eleanor emphasizes, looking at him in the mirror. “Maybe I’ll see if I can wrap up early today, regardless. I’m not sure how many more presentations about funding projects I can sit through, anyway.”

Liam chuckles softly and checks his watch. “Is there a gift shop or anything in the lobby? I can’t remember, but I’m going to have a look. Maybe they’ll have cough medicine. Oh, and I’d better tell Père Louis I can’t do breakfast. Do you want me to grab you anything?”

“No, I’m not hungry,” Eleanor answers, beginning to apply her foundation. “Oh, but you could ask him if he has any advice. You know, about pharmacies in the area. I mean, even priests much catch colds.”

Louis is already sitting at a table by himself with his usual cup of tea by the time Liam makes it down to lobby. He stands up when he notices Liam, and narrows his eyes. “You’re a bit of a sight to take in this morning, what’s wrong?”

“Yeah, cheers, good morning to you too,” Liam runs a hand through his hair distractedly. “It’s Madeleine. She’s come down with a cold. She’s fine, but miserable. I can’t really stay for breakfast.”

“Oh dear, of course not,” Louis says, his tone soft.

“The thing is, El and I were wondering if you had any advice?”

Louis laughs a bit at the idea of seeking out a priest instead of a doctor, but advises Liam to go to the big Duane Reade around the corner on Lexington, and to ask room service to send up hot water with honey and lemon. “They can’t do tea for shit here, we both know that. But the hotel will do what you ask.”

Liam isn’t sure that people follow his orders in quite the same way that people respond to Louis, but he thanks him anyway.

Madeleine and Liam spend the day cuddled up in the master bedroom, ordering movies off of the hotel tv and sleeping. While Madeleine doesn’t get much worse, she doesn’t seem to improve throughout the day either. He keeps asking how she feels so that he can text Eleanor with updates. Madeleine eventually stops saying anything, and just looks at him with baleful brown eyes, her bottom lip drooping down slightly, and Liam knows. He texts Eleanor a series of _:( :( :(((((((_ prompting her to come home early. She climbs into bed still wearing her Prada suit, and the three of them lie together with the duvet pulled all the way up, boxes of tissues strewn around them, and the tv flickering as another dark winter evening settles in.

Madeleine doesn’t worsen overnight, but she complains that her head feels fuzzy from the cough medicine, and she says in a raspy voice that she feels better lying down with her eyes closed. Liam and Eleanor exchange a look after she closes her eyes again. The three of them have tickets to see The Nutcracker that night. It was supposed to have been a surprise for Madeleine, but it doesn’t seem likely to happen at all now.

Louis offers a solution over breakfast. “Well, of course you and Eleanor should still go. Don’t let those tickets go to waste! The two of you should go out. I can stay with Madeleine, if you like. I mean, if that would be alright.”

“She loves you, of course it would be alright. But,” Liam stumbles, “are you _sure_? Babysitting an ill eight-year-old isn’t exactly glamorous.”

“I’m not some kind of rock star priest, I don’t care about glamour. Of course I’m sure.”

“I think that’s exactly what you are.” Louis pulls an annoyed face at this response, and Liam makes an exaggeratedly silly face back at him. “Hang on though, you know that I didn’t bring this up to try to force you into doing this, right? I don’t want you to feel obligated to do anything.”

“Liam, the only thing I feel obligated to do right now is to give you a smack. I offered to help because I _want_ to. Because I like Madeleine. Because I like you and Eleanor, and I want you all to be happy, alright? Is that good enough?”

Liam stares for a moment. Louis seems perfectly serious, and Liam feels that shiver down his spine again. It’s plenty good enough. “I’ll let El know, shall I? The ballet starts at half past seven, so…”

“I’ll be over between six and six-thirty,” Louis assures with a definitive nod.

Eleanor is applying another coat of mascara when Liam returns to their suite, and tells her the news. She blinks in the mirror at him. “That’s settled, then,” she declares, her tone neutral. But she sticks her pen between her teeth as she packs her handbag up for one of her final rounds of interviews, and Liam wonders what she’s concentrating on.

 

“Do you think this is formal enough?” Eleanor asks, later that evening as she regards herself in their full-length mirror. She’s wearing a form-fitting emerald green cocktail dress. It has fabric that’s sort of flaring out around her hips, which she’s informed him, is called a peplum. “It’s Lincoln Center, I’m not sure how formal we’re meant to be, you know? And I don’t want to go all out, since we have to get dressed up all over again for the fundraiser on Saturday.” 

Liam doesn’t know anything about peplums, or degrees of formality at Manhattan society functions, but he thinks the dress is quite flattering to Eleanor’s hips, and the fact that it’s a cocktail dress means that her bare legs are on view. It’s such a nice view that it takes Liam a moment to remember that he’s supposed to be responding. “I’ll be honest, El, I have no clue. All I know is that you look amazing.”

She rolls her eyes, but smiles at him anyway. “Not what I was asking, but appreciated, nevertheless. I’m trying to figure out if this is a good look.”

“It’s my favorite look.”

“Someone’s in a flattering kind of mood tonight,” she observes, but she’s beaming at him now. “I think I’ll put on stockings, actually. It’s supposed to snow tonight, did you hear? Snow in New York City, wouldn’t that be beautiful?”

Liam is rather occupied thinking about stockings, and how he’d very much like to see Eleanor wearing only stockings, and no dress right now. But then he looks over at her, and she’s got a dreamy-eyed look that reminds him of Madeleine looking at stained glass windows. He pictures Eleanor standing outside in her dark green dress, the snowflakes glinting around her in the night, landing in her hair and on her eyelashes. “Yes, that would be beautiful,” he agrees.

When they hear a knock on the door around six-thirty, Liam is still deciding which tie to wear, so Eleanor answers it. He steps out of the master bedroom a moment later with two ties in hand, when he sees Louis and Eleanor standing together just inside the doorway. He’s quiet for a moment, just taking them in: Eleanor in her green dress, black stockings, and high heels, with Louis in his red scarf, black peacoat, and trousers. Louis pushes his hair off his forehead, and Eleanor makes a movement with her hand as though to reach out and smooth his hair down, but she stops herself. Liam feels that shiver again. This time it slides down and settles in the pit of his stomach like a dull simmering that’s waiting to be ignited. 

“Is it raining out?” Eleanor asks Louis. “You look damp. You’ll catch a cold now as well!”

“I won’t,” Louis assures her, crossing himself. “And yes, it’s drizzling. It’s absolutely miserable out, but it’s supposed to turn into snow later tonight. At least that would be something to look at.”

Liam clears his throat. “El, darling, which tie do you think? I know you hate being matchy-matchy, so maybe this silver one? And shall I grab us an umbrella for tonight?”

They both turn to look at him. Louis smiles, his eyes crinkling even more than usual around the edges, and takes off his scarf. “It’s not raining too heavily, but you might want to bring something just in case. You two look…” he trails off looking between Liam and Eleanor. “I was trying to come up with something clever to say, but it wouldn’t do you justice. You look great.”

Liam feels his face flushing. “Thank you,” Eleanor walks towards him to look more closely at the ties, and they exchange an embarrassed, but pleased smile. 

“Madeleine, darling!” She calls. “Someone’s here to see you, if you feel like coming to say hello.”

Eleanor picks the silver tie, does it up for Liam, and ends up fussing with his lapels and smoothing everything else over as well. While she’s taking care of this, Liam watches Madeleine peek her head around her bedroom door, and give Louis a wave.

“Mademoiselle, I heard that you aren’t feeling very magnifique?”

“Not very,” she affirms, walking out into the living room. She’s wearing a lavender nightgown with a darker purple bathrobe over top. Her hair is pulled back in a messy bun. She curls up on the sofa, making herself look very small, and she looks younger than usual.

“Someone like you should always be feeling magnifique,” Louis says, jutting his lower lip out. “But I thought I could hang out with you tonight, if that’s alright with you?” She tilts her head to the side as though appraising him. “Don’t worry,” he adds. “I’ve brought a surprise.” Madeleine smiles her first smile in two days, and Liam and Eleanor exchange a look like _this is worth everything_. “Don’t get too excited,” Louis warns, as he holds up a Duane Reade bag. “But I came across some colored pencils. I thought they might be useful in dealing with this.” He hands over what looks like a magazine with a black cover.

“It’s a coloring book,” Madeleine announces. “Only, it’s stained glass windows instead of princesses, or something.”

“It is indeed. The paper is translucent, so you can rip the pages out if you like the design, and hang it on a real window to see what it looks like in the light.”

“How cool. Say thank you, Madeleine,” Liam encourages. “It was thoughtful of Uncle Père Louis to bring you something.”

“Thank you, Uncle Père Louis!” She rasps out in her cold-induced low voice.

“You’re welcome, and I would’ve brought you a lot more fun things, if I thought your parents would approve.”

“I’m sure we wouldn’t approve of anything you consider to be fun,” Liam says. Eleanor is busy flitting around the room, organizing her clutch purse, so he gathers up the duvet from the master bedroom, and brings it over to the sofa. “Here, bundle up with this, honey. Stay warm and comfy, alright?” Madeleine nods, but she’s too busy flipping through the book, trying to decide which page to color first, to really acknowledge him.

“Take care of Uncle Père Louis, darling,” Eleanor says, kissing her on the forehead, and leaving a lipstick imprint. “There, that’s how you know I’ll be back for you later.” And Madeleine smiles for a second time that night. Liam and Eleanor mouth _thank you_ to Louis, who salutes them, and then dives into a discussion about whether Madeleine should fill a rose in with red or pink.

Liam had originally arranged for a car service to take the three of them across town to Lincoln Center, so he and Eleanor slide into a black Mercedes sedan that’s waiting for them out on Park Avenue, just the two of them.

“It’s a shame we didn’t plan this ahead of time. You know, just the two of us going out,” he says. “I could’ve booked us reservations at Le Bernardin for before the show. Now of course, it would be impossible to get in. We could have at least gone for drinks, though.”

“It’s alright,” Eleanor is rummaging around in her clutch purse, and she pulls something out. Two somethings, in fact, that clink together. “It isn’t Le Bernardin, but I’ve come prepared.”

“Eleanor Calder-Payne, have you raided our minibar?” Liam asks, hoping that his attitude conveys mock shock. But, in reality, he truly is shocked.

“What’s the point in having a minibar if you can’t go a little bit nuts? I seem to have grabbed gin only, so do you want Tanqueray or Bombay Sapphire?” 

“You take the Tanqueray, dear. I know you like it.”

“You’re so chivalrous.”

“And you’re naughty.”

Eleanor hands him the miniature glass bottle, and looks him in the eye. There’s a hardness in her gaze, but it isn’t the type that makes Liam anxious. It’s a kind of gleaming tease, a sterling silver promise of something yet to come. “You love it,” she says, with a smile. They open the bottles, and Liam throws back his gin, because he does. He does love it.

 

Everything inside the theater is red. Liam isn’t drunk—not yet—the décor is literally entirely red velvet, from the carpeting on the stairs, to the walls, to the curtain on the stage. It’s also very bright, as there are chandeliers everywhere. Liam snaps a photo of the two of them standing on the balcony with one of the gigantic chandeliers hanging in the background. He texts it to Zayn, Niall, and Harry along with the message: 

_what are u doing tonite? get on our level…….. haaaa u can’t!!!_

_why is that model posing with that weird looking guy?? jk hahaaa, u look like rockstars!!! Z says give El a kiss for us._ Niall sends back.

 _Bright Young Things! you’ll see what we’re up to… xoxo_ is the somewhat ominous reply from Harry.

Liam and Eleanor are sat at the end of a row, with an extra seat, where Madeleine would have been, separating them from another couple. When the lights dim and the curtain goes up, it’s easy for Liam to forget the audience and even the dancers on-stage. He listens to Tchaikovsky’s famous composition in a gin-soaked haze, and the only thing he’s conscious of is Eleanor next to him. 

He can smell her perfume, it’s something sharp and cool, like lavender. That strikes him as an odd choice, and he takes her hand in his own, lacing their fingers together. He pulls her arm closer so that he can lean in and smell her wrist. He finds that the lavender topnote is just a shield, protecting a base of something warm and earthy. It blends so well with her skin that he can’t tell where the perfume ends, and where she begins. There’s something exciting, and insanely dirty about the naked smell of skin. It’s animalistic. Liam presses a kiss to her wrist, and then lets both of their arms drop to the armrest between them. Eleanor squeezes his hand more tightly. They hold hands for the rest of the first act.

Eleanor stands up immediately when the lights come on at intermission. “I want a drink!” she declares.

“What, is the bar in your purse closed?”

“A real drink. I’ve been working this entire trip, I’ve been on my best behavior. Now my daughter is in the hands of a capable babysitter, I’m out with my husband, and I want to get drunk, dammit.”

“I see,” Liam stands up and buttons his suit jacket. “Darling, let’s get smashed.”

The two of them walk down the red velvet stairs arm-in-arm, and find the bar where they order little cups of white wine. Eleanor finishes hers and orders another one before Liam has taken two sips of his. That silver edge to her gaze is shining more brightly, and Liam is content to relax and wait for whatever’s there to be fully revealed.

She’s smiling and laughing, and it’s her great laugh. “Don’t you love New York?”

“I do.”

“It’s different to London. It’s so… new.” She giggles here, hand over her mouth. “Isn’t it odd, how cities can be so different from each other? I mean, they’ve all got skyscrapers, and theaters, and libraries, but they have such a different feel.”

“I suppose so,” Liam wrinkles his brow, trying to keep up with her tipsy train of thought.

“Like Paris,” Eleanor says. She sets her cup down, and her silver bracelet jangles against the counter. “Paris is completely, utterly itself.” She’s still smiling at him, but she knows. She knows that she just knocked the wind out of him.

“Yes, that’s true,” he says in as steady a voice as he can. “Nothing can ever be Paris. I think Zayn said that to me.”

“Hmm,” she hums in reply. 

The lights overhead begin flashing signalling that it’s time to resume the show. People are streaming toward the stairs, but Liam and Eleanor stay still, the lights still going on and off above them.

“We’ll miss the show,” Liam says.

“We will,” she agrees, grabbing his arm and leading him away from the bar.

“The second act is the best part. The Arabian dancers!” But even as he says it, Liam is aware that he isn’t very interested in The Nutcracker anymore.

“We’ll probably see it hundreds more times, don’t worry,” she says, stopping and looking around. The ladies and men’s rooms are off to the side, but apparently she sees something she likes better, and she yanks Liam into a cloakroom. Her hand moves up to grasp his neck, and she pulls him down into a hard kiss. He can feel her lipstick smearing against his mouth. He likes it. And he knows what it means.

“El,” he breaks the kiss, and cups her face with both hands. “Here? Are you sure?”

“Liam,” she takes him by the lapels, and really looks at him. He can make her out even in the dim light of the cloakroom. Her jewelery is shimmering, but it’s her eyes that shine the brightest. “Tell me about Paris, just this once. Tell me a memory. Tell me one thing about it.” The silver light in her eyes flashes as she says this, causing something in Liam’s stomach to flip, and he realizes that, somehow, this is exactly the spark he’s been waiting for. 

He leans in to kiss her, tilting her head back with his hands. “Paris,” he breathes the word out over her mouth. “It was summertime,” he slides his hands down to her hips, and walks them both backward so that Eleanor is against the wall.

“Tell me,” she insists, pulling at his tie.

“He took me to gardens,” Liam says, against her neck. They both know that “he” isn’t referring to Zayn. “The jardin du Luxembourg. The Tuileries. We sat in the Tuileries with a bottle of champagne.” She’s trying to keep quiet as he nips and sucks around her neck, but little gasping noises escape from her mouth every once in a while. “And he taught me French.”

“Tell me,” Eleanor repeats, her voice hoarse, but forceful.

He pulls away from her neck, and strokes down her hair, twisting a strand between two fingers. He’s glad she’s wearing it down tonight. “This is _les cheveux_. And this,” he moves his hand to her nose, tapping it lightly and then kissing the tip. “ _Le nez_.” Their faces are centimeters apart now, he can practically feel her soft smile. “And now we have _les lèvres_.” He kisses her slowly this time, and she relaxes back into the wall. Liam moves his hands down past her waist to the hem of her cocktail dress, lifting it up. “These stockings!” He grits out, annoyed at having to pull them down.

“Just rip them, I don’t care,” Eleanor spits out desperately.

Liam does end up ripping them, but by accident as he pulls them down too quickly. Then he’s touching her bare legs, and her skin is hot. It’s like her perfume is everywhere, enveloping him in the scent of absolute desire, until he’s burning up on the inside and out.

He pulls her panties aside, and can feel that she’s already so wet. Usually he has to work her up a little more to get to this point—and he enjoys that—but it’s different this time. He wonders how long she’s been thinking about this, through the entire first act of the show, probably. Or, perhaps in the car when he had first noticed that odd gleam in her expression. Maybe it had been even earlier than that. Liam remembers Louis arriving in their suite, rain-soaked and pushing his damp hair out of his eyes. There had been the beginning of a gesture on Eleanor’s part, and then restraint, as she pulled herself back.

Liam takes his hands off of her to undo his own trousers, and she smacks her fists against the wall in anticipation. 

“I don’t know the French for this,” he teases, returning to her, and spreading her thighs.

“That’s enough talking,” she says, clawing at his shoulders now, trying to bring him closer, as if that’s possible. “No more words.”

She wraps one leg around his waist, and he hoists the other one up. He’s shaking, and trying to be careful with her. He knows she would probably laugh at him, and tell him that she’s given birth, for fuck’s sake, that sex is nothing in comparison. But this doesn’t feel like nothing. This is the first time they’ve had sex since being in New York, and now they’re doing it spur-of-the-moment in a cloakroom of a very famous theater, with Tchaikovsky’s music playing distantly. 

It’s odd because Eleanor is spontaneous, but also guarded, while Liam has a tendency to be cautious, but also more emotionally open. Maybe it shouldn’t work. Maybe the two of them shouldn’t work together at all. Her spontaneity and his emotion have led them here, to the strangest of situations, backed up against the wall. But there’s another ingredient at play, too. Liam isn’t denying it to himself, and he knows that Eleanor isn’t either. They both know what Paris means, they know whom it implies, and that the same pair of blue eyes is on both of their minds.

But that’s the thing, Liam wasn’t kidding, he doesn’t know the French for this. He doesn’t know the French for holding Eleanor in his arms as she bites down on her lip, and tries not to cry out every time he thrusts into her. Maybe she thinks it’s all about Louis, or mostly about Louis, anyway. But, Liam realizes in the clarifying silvery light in her eyes, that she’s always been essential. She had said not to use any more words, but he has to let her know.

“The only word I know for this,” Liam whispers into the shell of her ear, “is Eleanor.”

Her breath catches, as her entire body tenses for a moment, and then she’s shaking in his arms. She curls in against him, her mouth hot on his neck, and he can feel her silent cry against his skin. It’s more overwhelming than it’s ever been before, and Liam couldn’t control himself if he wanted to. He comes as she’s still shuddering through it. The two of them lean their foreheads against each other, and just breathe together as they come down.

Liam feels one of Eleanor’s legs sagging, and he sets her down, making sure she’s balanced before letting go. She then crouches down to the floor to survey the torn stockings.

“I hope our driver doesn’t notice,” Liam is suddenly a little bit embarrassed about what they’ve done. Excited, but embarrassed. He feels the need to comment on it in the only way he knows how, which is awkwardly. “That you arrived here wearing stockings, but will be leaving without them. It was my fault, I’m sorry.”

Eleanor picks up her stockings, and seems to be lost in thought for a moment as she remains crouched to the ground, holding them in her hand. Then she stands up, and leans into Liam. “I want him to know,” she says. She doesn’t mean the driver. Liam bows his head to look at her more closely. Her hair is wild around her face where he had pulled at it, her lipstick smeared, but her eyes are serious. “Not that we had sex, exactly. But, that… He should know that he’s _wanted_.”

“Absolutely needed,” Liam adds, remembering a turn of phrase.

“Exactly,” she whispers.

“I think he does. I think he knows.” 

Liam leans down to kiss her, and she tilts her head back, opening her mouth to him right away. He’s glad of it, because he wants to tell her for the first time. He wants to articulate it, the entire situation. _I kissed him once, and he couldn’t kiss me back. He wanted to, but he couldn’t, not properly. You can though_. And she does. She always does. He smiles around her lips, and they break apart.

Eleanor lets out a giggle, and fusses with his tie for the second time that night. “It’s so dim in here, but we’d better get cleaned up. I’m sure we both must look terrifying.” She laughs again, a kind of chiming melody.

“Eleanor!” Liam catches her wrist before she can leave the cloakroom. “What’s that perfume you’re wearing?”

“Jicky.”

“Bless you.”

“You lunatic, that’s what the perfume is called. It was the name of the woman the perfumer fell in love with. Something happened, I’m not sure of the full story, but they couldn’t be together. So he named a perfume after her. It’s by Guerlain.”

“You should wear it more often.”

“No, it’s far better for special occasions, don’t you think? It evokes a certain mood.”

Liam watches as Eleanor walks back out into the brightly lit red velvet theater in search of the ladies room. He pulls at his trousers and his suit jacket, trying to make himself look more presentable, and he thinks that “a certain mood” is definitely one way to characterize their evening out.

 

When Liam and Eleanor return to their Waldorf suite, they open the door to a calm and quiet atmosphere. Just one lamp on the side table is on, glowing through the entire living room. Louis is sitting on the sofa, one arm thrown over the back, looking at a magazine. Liam’s laptop is open, jazz music playing at a low volume. Louis puts the magazine aside when he notices the two of them. If he thinks anything of their slightly more dishevelled appearances, or the fact that Eleanor’s legs are now bare, he doesn’t show it. 

“Bonsoir à vous deux,” he says with a smile. “The mademoiselle is asleep in her room.”

“Asleep already? That’s a miracle. How was she feeling?” Eleanor asks, stepping out of her heels.

“She was doing as well as she possibly could, although she refused to take any more cold medicine. She said the taste is frighteningly bad,” he scrunches up his face in imitation of Madeleine. “But she actually voluntarily went to bed when she was tired—a very reasonable thing to do, which none of my sisters have ever done—and she seemed to fall asleep without any trouble. I’d say she’s on her way to getting better.”

“Without a doubt, the best news I’ve heard all day,” Liam declares. The duvet is still piled up on one corner of the sofa, and he carries it back into the master bedroom. 

He can hear Eleanor saying “Thank you so much for taking care of her tonight, I can’t tell you how much we appreciate it.”

“It was absolutely no problem. We had a brilliant time together.”

“I can only imagine what sort of trouble you’d convince her to get up to if she had been feeling well!” Liam calls, spreading the duvet out on the bed again.

“So many possibilities in a hotel, it’s rather overwhelming. It’s an old building, I wonder if there are any dumb waiters around?” Liam stands in the doorway, and shakes his head in what he hopes is his best _I’m the dad and I don’t approve_ way. Louis doesn’t fall for it. “Don’t act like you haven’t thought about it.” 

Then there’s a beeping noise, and something like a scratchy microphone interrupting the jazz music.

“Liam, it’s your computer,” Eleanor says as she leans over the laptop to look. “Liam, oh god, of course.” Suddenly there’s quite a lot of noise, and Eleanor just smiles, and says in a calm voice, “Hi, Harry.”

“Eleanor!” Liam hears a voice rasping out of his laptop, and he can make out wild hair on the screen. “Lads, it’s Eleanor, come say hello.” Two other familiar voices join in, but Liam doesn’t move just yet. Eleanor is handling it. And Louis is standing up now, slightly awkward and off to the side. He’s watching Eleanor.

“Hang on,” she’s saying, “is that my sofa you’re sitting on? And is that one of my good Tiffany’s crystal wine glasses you’re drinking out of?”

“Er—Liam gave Zayn a key ages ago. You know that, right?” Harry says, setting his glass down out of the frame, as if not being able to see it will set Eleanor’s mind at ease.

“Where is Liam, anyway?” Niall calls. “Where’s the Payner?”

“I’m right here,” Liam rushes over, leans over the back of the sofa to look at the screen. “Why are you three still awake, it must be the middle of the night over there. And what are you doing at my house? Do I even want to know the answers to any of these questions?”

“It’s very simple,” Niall explains. “We had to drop off some Christmas surprises for a certain little niece,” he whispers.

“She’s asleep, don’t worry” Eleanor cuts in. “You’re not ruining the surprise.”

“Aww, I wanted to say hi,” Niall pouts.

“Don’t you two go ruining the surprise now!” Harry commands, pointing at Liam and Eleanor.

Zayn leans further into the frame for the first time. “So you see, we had very important business to take care of. If we then happened to take advantage of your excellent wine cellar and sound system, we’re sure you won’t hate us too much.”

“I hope you haven’t woken up the neighbors with Justin Bieber karaoke again,” Liam sighs.

“And that’s _my_ wine cellar,” Eleanor reminds them. “As long as you replace the wine you took, I suppose we’ll be even.”

“And these so-called surprises for Madeleine had better be good,” Liam adds. The three of them burst out laughing, which is either a good sign, or a very worrisome sign.

Eleanor rolls her eyes, and turns to Liam. “I’m off to bed, darling.” She waves at the screen, and then walks around the sofa to stand by Liam. Before she can say goodnight to her husband though, she catches sight of Louis, who is still standing off to the side, and being uncharacteristically quiet. She gives him a little nod, which he returns. Then Liam feels her hand trailing casually across his stomach and his waist in a goodnight touch before she moves away, and closes the master bedroom door.

“Heeey,” Harry is saying through the computer. “Is there someone else there? Is that... ?”

“Father Tommo!” Niall shouts.

Louis sits down again, right next to where Liam is leaning over the back of the sofa, and gives a little salute. “It is indeed. It’s been a long time, lads.”

“Brilliant!” Harry says, his smile going goofier and droopier than usual, and Liam doesn’t want to know just how many wine bottles they’ve gone through.

“Hello, Père Louis,” Zayn says, and Liam notices there’s a quiet kind of respect in his voice.

“Hello, Zayn,” Louis matches his tone.

Liam looks between them and wonders for a moment about their connection, but he quickly starts talking again because Zayn is looking suspicious, even Niall looks questioning, and Harry seems on the brink of making a joke about a priest being in Liam’s hotel room. 

“Eleanor and I went out to the theater tonight, and Uncle Père Louis very kindly volunteered to spend time with Madeleine.”

“Uncle Père Louis, oh that’s perfect!” Niall declares.

“Really? I didn’t know about this,” Zayn says as pointedly as he can manage through a computer screen. He manages pretty well.

“El and I had a lovely evening together,” Liam emphasizes. “We’re grateful that Madeleine had someone so capable taking care of her while she’s feeling poorly.”

“Oh no, is she ill?” Niall inquires.

“Don’t worry, she’s grand,” Louis assures. “We finished half of the coloring book together tonight. And, just so everyone’s aware, you should not attempt coloring a rose in electric blue in front of her. Roses don’t come in that variation, therefore it’s improper. I received quite a thorough lecture on that.”

“I’m sorry, I’m afraid she’s always been rather more realistic than artistic,” Liam explains.

“Yeah, but we’re working on that though,” Zayn says. He’s relaxed a little bit more back into the sofa next to Niall, but he’s still looking between Liam and Louis with a watchful look in his eyes.

Niall must notice because he leans into Zayn’s lap, and starts half-smacking, half-stroking Zayn’s stomach. “You know, for someone who’s so bloody obsessed with art, you’re awfully analytical.”

“It’s my job to be analytical!” Zayn cries, frowning. But he’s running his fingers through Niall’s hair.

“I’m just saying, maybe you should cut the kid a break. And maybe she’s more like you than you think.”

Zayn blinks, and then his face breaks into a smile, his entire body relaxing. “It isn’t fair, you always know what to say.”

“It’s a talent.”

And then there’s quite a bit of kissing, or at least that’s what Liam assumes, because they fall across his and Eleanor’s sofa, and out of the frame of the webcam.

“Liam, oh god! Liam you have got to come home!” Harry says in a desperately serious voice. “They’re like this all the time, and you can’t leave me alone with them any longer.”

“We’ll be home Monday morning. And besides,” Liam can’t help laughing, “you spend at least fifty percent of your time with those two, anyway.”

“Yes, but I spend the other fifty percent of my time with you, so _come home_. Plus, you and El are always so much more discreet than whatever this mess is.” Niall’s feet are kicking out, and Harry shoves them out of his way. 

Liam laughs again at the idea of himself and Eleanor being discreet; after tonight he certainly hopes that Harry’s assessment is true. “Leave those two alone, and get some sleep, Styles. Don’t you have work or something in a few hours? And don’t forget, I’ll be home on Monday.”

“I haven’t got a proper job, I have an inheritance. I keep telling you that. Anyway, sweet dreams, prince Liam. Goodnight!” Harry blows an exaggerated kiss, and gives Louis a little wave. “Oi!” he yells in the direction of the Zayn and Niall tangle. “Say goodbye to Liam and his priest.” 

“Bye! Night! Tommo!” come the funny, staccato responses, and then the room is very quiet again. Liam will have to remember to send Niall flowers—no, a case of beer—for distracting Zayn so well.

Louis stands up from the sofa, the two of them just looking at each other in silence after such a long night, and Liam smiles. “After all that time, they’re still idiots. And they still call you my priest. Archbishop or not.”

“Plus ça change…” Louis remarks. Liam doesn’t know what that means, but Louis doesn’t elaborate. “I should go. Goodnight, Liam.”

“Wait, I haven’t thanked you enough—”

“You and Eleanor have both thanked me plenty,” Louis says, walking toward the door.

“No!” Liam shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I know Madeleine isn’t a baby anymore, but it’s still quite scary, leaving her. But you took care of her. She’s my daughter, and you took care of her.”

Louis turns to face him. He looks tired, and as though all his defenses are down. His shoulders sag slightly, and Liam remembers that he isn’t actually twenty-seven anymore. “Liam,” he says gently. “Of course I did.” Then he opens the door, and leaves Liam alone in the living room. Liam turns to shut off his laptop (there’s a very quiet piano solo playing to the room, which he doesn’t want to leave going all night) when he notices the view out the window. It’s dark, naturally, but the sky is shimmering with something silver, somehow lit up from within. 

It’s snowing in New York.

+

The next morning Liam wakes to a thin blanket of snow covering the city. It hasn’t slowed down traffic, the familiar yellow taxi cabs trundle along Park Avenue, as usual. But snow is covering the sidewalks, and it’s still coming down. Madeleine appears to be feeling better, and she and Eleanor are watching the snow fall through the window in the living room. Liam stands with them for a little bit, one arm on each of their shoulders, then he kisses them both, and heads downstairs for breakfast.

He runs into Louis at the Starbucks in the basement this morning instead of in the lobby. After ordering their usual drinks, they walk upstairs toward the front entrance of the hotel. A gleam appears in Louis’ eye that Liam recognizes.

“Hey, come on,” Louis says, and nods toward the doors instead of toward the lobby.

“I don’t know,” Liam teases. “I thought you didn’t like the cold.” Louis spares him one colossal eye roll before marching out the front door and Liam, of course, follows him. 

It’s breathtaking outside. Quite literally, it takes Liam a moment to catch his breath as the cold air hits his chest. The city is different somehow today. It’s still busy with activity—a little snowfall isn’t enough to shut down business—but there’s a hushed atmosphere to everything, as though the city is quietly contemplating its normal activities. Louis and Liam cross the street and walk uptown. They walk past a church, St Bart’s, and it looks like a sort of iced gingerbread castle with its coating of snow.

“I bet St. Patrick’s looks beautiful today,” Liam says into the quiet.

“Even better than usual probably, yes. This snow really is something, no?” And Liam knows that Louis senses it too, the slight but palpable shift in the dynamic of the city.

“Eleanor was saying something last night,” Liam begins, and he tries to recall what Eleanor had said. Last night seems like an oddly long time ago now. “She was talking about cities, and how each one is so uniquely its own thing. I thought you would appreciate that idea. Especially this morning, with New York like this.”

Louis cocks his head and smiles. “Always insightful, that one. Yes, that’s true.” They cross the street again and Louis waits until they’re through traffic to continue speaking. “On the one hand, cities are like machinery. It’s like something Le Corbusier would say, cities are like machinery to live. New York is maybe the ultimate machine in that sense. But, you know it’s strange because cities are also these kind of living beings with a real spirit to them. It’s noticeable on certain days, like when the spring rain finally breaks in Paris, or when Manhattan gets its first substantial snowfall of the season.”

Liam stops walking to look at Louis. He’s holding his free hand out in front of him, snowflakes landing on his fingertips and melting instantly. “Yes, I thought you would appreciate that,” he repeats. Louis stops walking too. He turns to face Liam, and gives a little laugh, which Liam sees as a huff of smoke in the cold air before it evaporates. There comes an insistent buzzing in Liam’s coat pocket, which turns out to be his mobile. “Sorry, but I should check and see if this is Eleanor.”

It turns out to be Zayn. 

_hey bro, Niall says hi and to email him any updates u have for the album. Harry says to tell El that we didn’t break any wine glasses… this time !!!_  
 _p.s. everything ok there after last night? let me know. x :)_

“Everything alright?” Louis asks. “We can start heading back.”

“No, it’s fine. It’s Zayn. He’s just updating me—apparently none of my possessions were harmed during the Christmas surprise invasion last night. We’ll see how accurate that turns out to be,” Liam chuckles fondly, and pockets his mobile again. He looks over at Louis. “No, this walk is nice.” 

Liam will answer Zayn later, but he isn’t sure what to say yet. He knows what Zayn means when he asks if everything is okay, but Zayn is worried about a transgression that isn’t going to happen. Louis had stopped it from happening a long time ago. Liam had wanted it. He had wanted to scratch away at Louis, to work his way beneath all of the armor Louis puts up until he could feel Louis’ skin at his fingertips, and underneath his own body. Skin against skin. When Louis had made it clear that this was an impossibility, Liam had viewed it as a barrier, and he had tried his hardest to run away from it. Twenty-five is so young, and he didn’t know any other way to be close to Louis. 

It hadn’t happened in Paris, and it certainly isn’t going to happen this time here in New York. It doesn’t bother him, or at least not in the way that it had during that summer in Paris. This isn’t to say that he doesn’t still feel a magnetic pull somewhere in the pit of his stomach every time Louis takes a step towards him. He does, but it’s more of a neediness tinged with nostalgia, not so sharp and raw after all these years.

Their relationship has always been defined by what they can’t do with each other, can’t say to each other, and it’s made them into something else entirely. They’re something that isn’t quite defined by a word or an action. No, Zayn doesn’t need to worry. They’re simply themselves: Liam and Louis, standing at the corner of E. 52nd and Park in the snow.

Eleanor is involved now, too, in all of it. Liam had invoked her, brought up the conversation she had started last night, the one that had sparked everything between them. And Louis responded to it, had responded specifically to her, in a roundabout way. Liam doesn’t know how to go about explaining this either. He had been afraid of it, of this sort of triangle. It’s turned out to be complicated and weird, to be sure, but it’s also thrilling. And Liam thinks that Eleanor and Louis would agree on all counts. 

“It’s a beautiful morning out,” Liam says. “Shall we head back now, though?”

Louis smiles at him, small, but open and honest. “Perfect timing, my tea is almost gone.”

Liam thinks maybe this is what the rush of the city is all about. The frenetic pace, the constant honking, changing of lights, and slamming on of brakes is in preparation for moments like this, where two people can come together on a street corner and really _be_ together, just for a moment. It’s possible to get to know someone while sitting in a garden in Paris, and it’s possible to know someone as you stand, silently counting down the seconds together, before the light at the crosswalk changes.

Liam and Louis head back toward the Waldorf through the snow, their elbows occasionally brushing together as they walk. They don’t say a word to each other, finding intimacy in their silence.

+

The Waldorf Astoria exists for Saturday nights. People spill in through the doors from both Park and Lexington until the lobby is a sea composed of tourists eager to see the inside of a famous landmark, or people meeting each other for drinks at one of the several bars and restaurants. Most recognizably, there are guests of the multiple parties and functions, which take place every weekend of the year to satisfy the inexhaustible Manhattan social calendar. These guests stream in, supremely confident in their shimmery evening gowns and smooth tuxedos.

Some guests are only there for a quick errand, like Dani. She makes her way up to the suite, kisses both Eleanor and Liam on the cheek, and whisks Madeleine off to the cinema for the evening, with promises to be home early since Madeleine is still fending off her cold for good.

After Dani and Madeleine leave, Liam paces back and forth across the master bedroom as he waits for Eleanor to finish getting ready for the fundraiser, afraid to sit down for fear of wrinkling his trousers. Eleanor hates wrinkles.

“Can you stop pacing? It’s making me nervous,” she says. She’s standing in front of the closet surveying the several pairs of shoes she’s brought along from home. She must be able to see him in her peripheral vision.

“Sorry, but I am actually nervous.”

Eleanor chooses a pair of metallic silver stilettos, and turns to face him with a smile. “Babe, it’s a party. Why on earth would you be nervous?”

“Yeah, a party being thrown by Bill and Hillary Clinton! The whole thing sounds just a little bit out of my league.”

“Liam, listen to me, you are a singer/songwriter/producer at a big London record label with a disposable income, and a platform to make your views heard. You’re the definition of the so-called league that the Clintons are looking to reach. Besides, you know me. And they know me. I don’t see any problems.”

“You always do parties so well.”

“You’re better at handling parties than you think. Don’t forget, we met at a party.”

“How could I ever forget? One of Harry’s awful parties when he lived in that flat with the balcony. I couldn’t believe you were even speaking to me, let alone that you gave me your number.”

“You were a mess,” she laughs. “But I saw that you had Zayn to take care of you. You had your buzzcut then. You thought you were awfully tough, drinking whatever concoction Niall mixed up for you. But there was something about your eyes that made me think, _I’d like to talk to that boy_. Only, when you weren’t about to puke off the edge of the balcony.”

“Such a romantic first impression,” Liam groans. Eleanor is laughing at him some more, but it’s her best laugh, and he can’t help smiling at her. “You were the only person at that party drinking champagne. I saw you carrying a glass of it around all night, and I thought to myself, _that girl has the best taste here. I have to know her_.”

“Now you do. And I know you. So,” she puts her hands on her hips. “Shall we do this, then?”

There’s something professional about her demeanor, and Liam remembers that events like this are another aspect of her job. But she’s also smiling in a way that suggests maybe she’s got gin and god knows what else stashed in her purse again. Liam’s shoulders relax, and he smiles. He buttons his suit jacket, and crosses the room to open the door for her. “Let’s do this together.” 

As they walk down the hallway to the lifts, Liam feels his mobile buzzing in his pocket. Two messages pop up on screen:

_just ducking out of the wedding reception now – it’s in the hotel lobby v convenient !_

_are you there yet? save me a drink. I’ll be the one in the archbishop costume._

“Our archbishop is on his way up as well,” he says to Eleanor.

She smiles as they step onto the lift. “Perfect timing.”

 

When the lift doors slide open, it’s to reveal a literal roar of noise from the crowd of people already gathered. There are an endless number of chandeliers overhead and everyone seems to be glittering, even the men with their slicked-back hair and shiny new suits. Liam has a moment where he feels a bit bland, and too much like a little kid from Wolverhampton to even be in the room. Then he feels Eleanor squeeze his arm, and he remembers that he’s wearing freshly shined shoes himself and brand-new cufflinks, and that she won’t let him be bland. She waves to a couple of people, her smile determined but also genuine, and Liam matches her smile.

“I’ll snag our place cards,” she says. “You get the drinks. Deal?”

“Champagne?” he asks.

“You know me,” she says with a little wink before weaving her way to the front table to sort through the hundreds of place cards.

It’s no surprise that the bar is crowded. There seem to be several NBA players in attendance. Liam doesn’t know them by name, but he judges by their height and by the way other people’s eyes light up as they realize with whom they’re socializing. Liam knows better than to try pushing past basketball superstars, so he waits patiently until it’s his turn.

All of this is to say that it’s quite awhile before he’s able to start heading back to meet Eleanor, two glasses of champagne in hand. As he navigates his way back toward the entrance, the crowd parts, and he catches sight of her. She’s one long column of black in her dress. It goes all the way up to her neck in front, but leads to a plunging V down her back, which raises all sorts of exciting questions about what kind of bra she may or may not be wearing underneath. 

While the sight of Eleanor alone would be enough to stop Liam in his tracks, there’s more to the scene this time. Louis is standing next to Eleanor and, in stark contrast to her, is outfitted in a regal-looking billowing white robe. He isn’t wearing the tall bishops’ mitre hat. Instead, he has a thin white zucchetto perched atop his hair like a halo. Liam thinks that the two of them make a striking pair, and not just to him, but to anyone in the room. They look too perfect for the Black & White Ball. They appear almost absurdly on-point as chess pieces: he’s clearly the bishop, while she’s the queen. 

Liam watches the two of them as the crowd continues to grow and move around him. Eleanor and Louis chat, completely absorbed in each other. At one point, Eleanor breaks into laughter, and Liam can hear it over the din of the crowd. She reaches one arm out, and rests her hand on Louis’ upper-arm, supporting herself there. The touch sends an absolute shiver through Liam. Her polished nails stand out against Louis’ plain white robe, and it’s as though Liam can feel the touch from both sides. He knows what Eleanor’s hand feels like around his own arm, small, but confident and supportive. And he knows what it is to touch Louis: fleeting and rare, and how it sends wave ripples through his entire body.

Liam feels it then, something pulling at the pit of his stomach like pure magnetism, and he’s being drawn through the crowd, until he’s directly in front of Eleanor and Louis. He wonders briefly what chess piece he is. The two of them are still giggling to each other.

“Speak of the devil!” Eleanor quips upon seeing him. She isn’t touching Louis anymore now. She’s leaning into Liam instead, and taking one of the glasses of champagne.

“I hope the two of you weren’t gossiping about me together,” Liam says, a little bit worried now that he thinks about it.

“That’s it!” Eleanor cries, pointing to his face. “Isn’t that exactly it?” She and Louis laugh even more, and Liam feels his face flushing.

“It’s your eyebrows, mate,” Louis explains. “They do this marvellous kind of _thing_ ” he waves his hand around in an attempt to demonstrate, “when you get flustered. We were just talking about it.”

“It’s adorable,” Eleanor assures him, leaning her head on his shoulder for a moment. It’s really just her hair—she’s not going to smudge her makeup on his suit, after all.

“I don’t want to be adorable,” Liam insists. “I want to be handsome and intimidating. Like James Bond or Bruce Wayne.”

“Darling,” Eleanor takes his hand. “You’re extremely handsome. Especially tonight.” 

“You didn’t say intimidating, though,” Liam observes. Eleanor merely squeezes his hand in response. Liam turns to Louis, raising an eyebrow, soliciting his input. Louis shrugs like he isn’t going to argue with Eleanor. But he reaches out and grips Liam’s arm around his elbow.

Louis’ grip is loose, whereas Eleanor’s hold on his hand is tight, and Liam is practically vibrating from the contrast of the two of them. His entire body feels fizzy, like he’s the champagne swimming in the glass he’s still holding. He’s glad he has the two of them supporting him because he isn’t sure he could stand on his own. He’s glad he has the two of them in general because he needs both of them. They’re two halves of some kind of whole: one with brown eyes, one with blue eyes; one wearing black, one wearing white. But they have more in common than the contrast would suggest, and, as if in acknowledgement of that, Liam hands his champagne to Louis.

“Here, this is for you. I don’t need a drink yet.”

Louis drops his hand from Liam’s arm and takes the drink. “Cheers, Liam.” Then he looks past Liam to Eleanor. They smile at each other and clink glasses. The tiny ringing sound it elicits goes straight to Liam’s head, and he thinks he’s never heard anything so lovely.

 

Once the crowd is ushered into the ballroom, dinner takes quite a long time. Table arrangements seem to have been done in the most random manner possible, so that Liam and Eleanor are sat with a socialite, an assistant coach for the Knicks, the head chef at a trendy restaurant of the moment, a contributing editor for TIME Magazine, and their respective dates. Eleanor actually hits it off with the Knicks coach, and he ends up ordering her a whisky. Liam scoffs at her, but she downs it like a pro, earning her a fistbump from the coach. 

Liam scans the room for Louis. He’s at the Mara’s table, which Liam assumes is probably near the front, and full of high rollers. 

“There’s Anna Wintour and Si Newhouse,” the socialite helpfully points out to Liam. “He’s technically been her boss all these years, but, with her promotion, she essentially owns Condé now. And she reportedly owns stock in Advance Publications too, meaning she could buy him out. Wouldn’t that be _crazy_?” she asks, her dangly diamond earrings swaying dangerously around her face.

“Yes,” Liam answers, thinking it’s all quite crazy, indeed.

The three Clintons, Bill, Hillary, and Chelsea, get up to speak together. They bring the house down, and that’s before Bill produces a saxophone seemingly from out of thin air, and plays a few notes. Eleanor leans into Liam’s shoulder in wonder as they listen to the music, and Liam thinks they’ll probably raise enough money tonight to build an exact replica of the Waldorf Astoria.

 

Later, Liam realizes why he’s had a hard time spotting Louis in the crowd: at some point, he had changed from his robes into a regular tux. He weaves through the tables, and comes to stand behind Liam and Eleanor, one hand on each of their chairs. Eleanor looks up at him, her eyes gone all whisky hazy.

“Oh, you’re wearing black now,” she remarks. “Shame, you were the only one of us in white.”

“I’d been wearing that wretched robe all day at the wedding, and it’s roasting. It was time to breathe a little.”

“Only you would consider wearing a tuxedo freeing,” Liam snarks.

Eleanor seems to find this hilarious. She sways a little in her seat, and stares up at Louis. “You’re amazing,” she says to him.

Liam looks at her, suddenly sharp and aware, but she’s smiling, perfectly casual and relaxed. There’s no intent beyond the simple pronouncement of Louis’ amazingness. She reaches for Liam’s wrist, turns it so that she can see his watch. 

“Everything alright?” he asks her, tentatively. “Do you have a hot date to meet?”

“Yes, actually. I promised Dani I’d pay her in bottles of wine and gossip tonight. I’ve gotten a bit too much of a head start on the drinking part of that. I’d better go to her so that she can start catching up. Madeleine might still be awake, and I can say goodnight for both of us.”

“For both of us?” Liam asks.

She gives him a look, and this time there is something behind it. He can’t quite see it yet, but she knows something. She leans in and kisses him on the mouth. Louis is still standing over them. He doesn’t move, Liam knows, because he can still feel Louis’ hand curled over the back of his chair as he kisses Eleanor. It’s a bright kiss, somehow full of light like the chandeliers hanging above them. The taste of alcohol sears through both of them, and Liam falls into it, willing to get drunk on this. 

Eleanor is the one who pulls away, with a gentle caress to his face. She surveys the lipstick damage, and seems pleased. “Not bad. Besides, Tom Ford looks good on everyone.”

“Shh,” Liam cautions. “Don’t say his name too loudly, he’s probably here.”

“Perfect, then I shall congratulate him on the wearability of his lipsticks. I wonder if he tested out the formula by kissing people? Actually, never mind, I’m certain he did.” She smiles at him. “See you in the morning.” 

Liam giggles at her out of wonder. She keeps her hand on his cheek for a moment longer, then she’s standing up, towering in her black sheath dress. She bows her head to Louis.

“Goodnight, Eleanor,” Louis says in return. 

“Goodnight, boys,” she says with a bit of a wink, and then she’s no longer towering over Liam, but receding. She has plans separate from the two of them, and they can’t reach her now.

“Hey,” Louis says, looking down at Liam. “This isn’t the classiest thing I’ve ever said, but: wanna get drunk?”

“Please,” Liam answers, standing up and buttoning his jacket. “Take me to a real bar.”

Liam and Louis end up in the lobby, which is still buzzing with activity at eleven pm. Other guests from the fundraiser must have wandered downstairs, and the Mara wedding reception is still carrying on over near the marble front entrance. Louis waves to several people in the crowd. Then he takes Liam by elbow, guiding him into Sir Harry’s, the pub in the Waldorf lobby. Sir Harry’s is dim, with plush carpeting underfoot, and hardwood tables for two and four people. The tabletops have checkerboard prints on top. Liam thinks it looks rather like the inside of a country club.

They sit across from each other at one of the tables and flip through the heavy book that’s supposed to be the cocktail list.

Liam lets out a laugh. “Shit, El got drunk with that basketball coach. I can’t believe her.”

“Oh, I see,” Louis smiles. “You’re jealous. We need to get you a real drink. Scotch!” he cries, slamming his fist on the table. A nearby waitress rolls her eyes, but brings them their drinks in fancy tulip-shaped whisky glasses. Before Liam knows it, she’s brought them two more rounds, and Louis is ordering some type of beer called Yuengling for both of them.

“It’s the most decent lager on offer, I’ve tried them all,” he assures.

“A connoisseur. To think that I ever thought priests couldn’t drink.”

“You had so many of the oddest ideas about priests!” Louis puts on an exaggerated brummie accent. “Are you allowed to use iPhones?” 

“That doesn’t sound like me at all. And, I’m sorry, but you’re actually the only priest I know. That might be shocking to you, but it’s true.”

Louis smiles gently at Liam, before taking a sip of his beer. “Not all that shocking, no. But look at us now, real adults. So much wiser. And wearing tuxedos, no less.”

Liam traces a finger around the rim of his empty whisky glass. “I always felt like you were the real adult, even then. You behaved ridiculously sometimes, but you could turn it around in an instant. I didn’t feel like I could be your equal in that way. I felt too young and lost.”

“If it helps at all, I never saw you that way,” Louis says, leaning across the table. “A little naïve, perhaps. Especially when you first appeared at the église with that sad little map. But I didn’t think that you were some sort of charity case. I would never think that about you. You weren’t lost, you were just… looking for something. There’s a difference.”

“I found it,” Liam gives a stunned laugh, sitting back in his chair. It’s really sinking in for the first time. He had found Louis. “I found it twice. Isn’t it the strangest thing?”

“The absolute strangest,” Louis agrees. “I’ve been thinking about it the past couple of weeks. How can it be explained, coming across someone totally by accident? God’s will or free will? Destiny or coincidence?”

“Too many words,” Liam says, shaking his head. “No more words.”

“Of course, how could I forget? You don’t do words. But, in this case, I agree with you. Some things are too big to be categorized like that. People feel more comfortable when they have a concrete definition to go on but, sometimes, the concrete isn’t enough to describe what’s happened.”

“Madeleine wanted to see the stained glass,” Liam says. He remembers the look in her eyes as she took in St. Patrick’s for the first time: a sharp interest, coupled with an inspired dreaminess. “That’s what happened. That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Louis echoes.

 

Sir Harry’s informs them that it’s beyond last call, and that they are, in fact, being kicked out. Liam has no idea what time it is, as he’s reached the point in his quest to become an alcohol connoisseur where his watch face just looks like a shiny blur, and he isn’t sure where his mobile is. Louis takes him by elbow again as they stand up, and he’s grateful for the support.

“I have an idea,” Louis says, his eyes gleaming. “I snagged some cigars from Wellington after the wedding earlier today. Let’s go smoke them.” Liam doesn’t much care for smoking, but cigars seem like the proper way to end a night that has included listening to Bill Clinton play the sax.

The two of them walk into the marble front entrance hall, headed for the front doors. The Mara wedding reception seems to be dying down, but the band is still playing. The doors into the reception hall are open, and Liam hears the opening notes of Take Five being played on a piano. He can see the bride and groom begin to sway on the spot. He stops walking.

“That’s it,” he says, turning to Louis. 

“What’s it?” Louis asks, not entirely paying attention.

“We were both right, it’s not a word. It’s a rhythm. Listen, that’s exactly it.” Louis turns to him with confusion clouding his eyes, but he stops walking. The saxophone starts up now, and Liam points, as if the sax player can see him. “Perfect, right there. Running into you again is just like that.” He smiles at Louis, knowing that he’ll have to explain. “This piece was written in 5/4, which is an unusual time signature. It plays by a different set of rules, can you hear? The thing is, the tension created by the slightly off rhythm isn’t discordant. It creates a playfulness. A sexiness, quite frankly. The element of surprise is essential. The entire piece could crash under the irregularity, but it doesn’t. It comes together as music.”

Louis is staring through the open doors as though he can see the musical notes Liam is explaining. Liam knows now what it looks like to see Louis genuinely surprised and enthralled. He’s completely still, his lips parted as though caught in mid-sentence, his blue eyes clear as glass. He sets a hand on Liam’s shoulder and leans in close. “I believe you now. I believe that you passed your degree all those years ago. Music theory.”

“Anyone who knows anything about music could have told you that.”

“Maybe, but not just anyone told me. _You_ did.”

The sax drops out again, leaving the piano and the drums to carry the middle of the piece. The bride and groom are the only people still on the dance floor, and Liam can see that the bride has taken off her shoes, bare feet peeking out underneath her dress. People are walking in both directions around Liam and Louis, either heading toward the front door of the hotel, or to the lifts, moving the party upstairs. Liam remembers that Eleanor is upstairs. She had kissed him, a burning, gorgeous kiss and then said _see you in the morning_ like she understood something that Liam didn’t yet.

The sax rejoins the number now, smooth as ever, taking its time, and then growing more confident as the end approaches. The bride and groom aren’t dancing anymore, just holding each other on the dance floor. Louis’ hand is still on Liam’s shoulder, and Liam shifts closer, wraps an arm around Louis’ waist. He bows his head a little bit so that their temples are nearly pressed together.

The spell breaks with the last note of the song, and both couples step apart. 

 

Liam doesn’t have a coat with him, and neither does Louis. They stand outside anyway, barely feeling the cold, puffing away on cigars. Liam laughs a lot and for no particular reason. Maybe it’s the cigar smoke in his lungs, filling him up, all hot and expansive. Maybe because the city is still so bright at night, Park Avenue an endless line of shimmering light. Maybe it’s because Louis is huddling close to him for warmth, trying to look cool while inhaling the thick cigar smoke. He’s only succeeding in looking genuinely cool about half the time, but his hair is falling across his forehead, his cheeks turning red from the cold, and Liam thinks the view is pretty great.

When they’ve had all they can manage of the cigars, Louis drags Liam around the corner, and in through a side entrance. Liam realizes that he’s being taken to a different set of lifts that he’s never seen before. 

“Private entrance,” Louis says, waggling his eyebrows.

“It’s very impressive.”

“I know, isn’t it?” Louis agrees, slotting his key card in and pressing the button.

The private lift takes them up higher than Liam has ever been in the hotel. He had thought his own suite was fairly spacious, especially by New York standards, but Louis opens the door to an absolutely cavernous apartment. 

“Holy shit, you’ve got a chandelier in your room,” Liam points out, feeling rather dumb.  
“Do you invite loads of people up here just to impress them to death?”

“No—er, hardly anyone,” Louis answers. “The Maras mostly. Technically, it is their apartment, so they’re quite welcome. Priests aren’t really in the habit of inviting people back to their rooms, you know?”

“Oh,” is all Liam can say. He freezes, still in the hallway. He’s just had quite a lot to drink, and is in Louis’ hotel room for some reason. And Louis’ hotel room is big enough to have a hallway.

Louis seems to have just realized this as well. “I’m sorry, I didn’t really invite you up, did I? I just sort of… brought you. But as long as you’re here, you should make yourself comfortable.” Louis is shrugging off his suit jacket, and undoing his bowtie. Liam notices that he leaves his shirt collar buttoned all the way up.

“Do you have some water, actually? Bottled water or anything? And, oh shit, do you know what time it is?”

“It’s nearly three in the morning,” Louis calls from another room. He comes back with a cold bottle of water for Liam, who still hasn’t left the hallway.

“Oh god, Eleanor will kill me. I’m gonna stumble in smelling like cigar smoke, and we’re leaving tomorrow night—tonight, technically—and I still need to pack.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure you’re disgustingly organized. You’ll probably be able to round everything up in about two seconds. Besides, she said she’d see you in the morning. She didn’t seem to expect that you’d be back early.”

“You noticed, too?”

Louis shrugs. “It’s just what she said.”

“Yeah, it’s what she said. It just seemed to me like she knew something. Like she knew we’d end up here.”

“She’s a prophet, your wife is,” Louis jokes. He’s hanging his jacket up in a closet, doesn’t really seem to be getting what Liam is saying. Liam can feel his own face scrunching up—his eyebrows are probably doing that thing—out of frustration that he can’t get his point across.

“There’s something—” he starts, but a very loud ringing interrupts him. It’s the hotel phone, ringing insistently throughout the apartment. Both Liam and Louis jump in surprise. 

“Who in the fuck?” Louis wonders out loud, making his way over to the phone. “Sorry!” he calls over his shoulder to Liam. “It’s probably nothing, but I’d better answer just in case.”

Liam unscrews the cap on his water bottle, and takes a sip. He can hear Louis talking, and it sounds like he’s speaking French, or maybe Italian. Liam calculates the time difference and realizes that the phone call must be from Europe, considering the time here in New York. Louis had said to make himself comfortable, but Liam’s pretty comfortable right where he is. He slides down the wall to sit on the floor, the heavy carpeting soft underneath him. He finishes off the entire water bottle, and thinks he can feel the water seeping directly into his brain, making him more clear-headed.

Liam is still sitting on the floor when he realizes that he doesn’t hear Louis talking anymore. He must have finished with his call, but he’s nowhere to be seen. “Père Louis?” Liam calls into the vast apartment. “Bonjour? Bonsoir?”

Louis appears in the hallway, then, wild-eyed and his breathing erratic. Liam sits up. “Has something bad happened? I heard you speaking French, is everything alright?”

“It’s nothing bad,” Louis says, but in such an odd tone of voice, that Liam almost doesn’t believe him. Louis takes a seat on the floor next to Liam, and leans back against the wall himself. “I’m not sure how to describe what just happened.” He lets out a stunned laugh. “It doesn’t feel real.”

“But it’s a good thing?”

“Yes,” Louis turns to face him. “That was my friend in Rome, Père Antoine. Cardinal Antoine, actually. You know that thing I told you about? About how I thought this whole thing might be a test run for being considered for the College of Cardinals?”

“Of course I remember.”

“It’s so silly.”

“Oh no, did you not get it? I’m so sorry.”

“No,” Louis says, looking at Liam again. His face is scrunching up like he might cry. “I did get it.”

“What!” Liam practically shouts.

“Père Antoine said he wanted to tell me the news right away. It isn’t official yet, it won’t be official until the New Year. That’s when I’ll be formally inducted into the College of Cardinals.”

Liam stares for a full minute before he can collect himself to speak. “Oh my god. I mean, congratulations! I mean, _shit_.”

“I know,” Louis laughs. “Isn’t it terrible? There’s no proper way to react to this sort of thing.”

“Of course not, you idiot. Cardinal! There shouldn’t be a proper way to take that kind of news. That’s so, so fucking brilliant. I’m so happy for you, I can’t even express it.”

“Thank you,” Louis says in a small voice, looking down at his hands.

“You need to tell your mum,” Liam says, after a moment.

“Oh no,” Louis covers his face with his hands. “She’ll be so excited it will honestly be terrifying. She’ll need sedatives.”

“Don’t be mean about your mum,” Liam says, nudging Louis with elbow.

“I’m not being mean, I’m being honest. Maybe I can tell my sisters first so that they can prepare her. I don’t know, I’ll call home after I get a couple hours sleep. Though, I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep at all now, to be honest.”

“You don’t need sleep, you’re a Cardinal.”

“I’ll just say that for everything now, shall I?”

“Yes. You don’t need to go to the dentist, you’re a Cardinal. You don’t need to queue up for anything, you’re a Cardinal.”

“It isn’t meant to be a power trip,” Louis nudges Liam back. “But maybe I’ll say it. Sometimes. In case of emergency.”

“Hey, what’s next after Cardinal? What’s the next level?”

“Pope,” Louis answers, and Liam looks at him. “No!” Louis yells emphatically. “If you think the Catholic Church will ever allow a Pope of English origins, you’ll be waiting a long time, my friend. Henry VIII took care of that.”

“You’re a young Cardinal, though. You have plenty of time to change the views of the Church.”

“Believe me, Cardinal is honor enough. More than enough, in fact.”

“I do believe you. Your attitude is why you were chosen, and it’s what will make you a brilliant Cardinal.” Louis looks like he’s on the verge of tears again, so Liam adds: “Pope Tommo has a nice ring to it though, don’t you think?”

Louis buries his head in his hands. “Awful!” he croaks out. “You’re awful.”

“What should I call you now?” Liam asks, after a few minutes. “Cardinal Louis? Is that formal enough? I don’t know anything about the protocol, and you have so many names.”

Louis slides along the wall, leaning in closer to Liam. His gaze is an intense bolt of blue as he says, “Louis. Call me Louis. Just once.”

Liam gasps, feeling Louis’ words sharp and hot in his gut. He’s never seen Louis look more serious about anything. He reaches out a hand, and runs his thumb along the defined line of Louis’ cheekbone. Louis shifts like he wants move into the touch, and that’s enough for Liam. He tangles his hand in Louis’ hair and pulls him all the way in. They both shift so that they’re practically on top of each other, legs tangled. Liam is cupping both of his hands around Louis’ head now, and Louis is gripping the lapels of Liam’s jacket. Their foreheads bump together. It’s painful in a dull aching way, and Liam likes it.

They’re so close now, that Liam can feel Louis’ breath hot on his own face, and can see little freckles running from the bridge of his nose underneath his eyes. It’s taken them all these years to reach this point of closeness. Liam thinks it’s even closer than when he had kissed Louis—even though there’s an inch of space between their mouths right now—and it’s because this is a type of closeness that Louis had asked for. Liam won’t close that empty space between their mouths, won’t cross it. He knows it isn’t a barrier anymore, knows that he can use it to communicate between them.

“Louis,” he breathes out. The name hangs in the space between them for a moment, and then Louis breathes in like he’s absorbing it.

“I knew I could tell you,” Louis whispers. “I knew, somehow, that it would be okay to tell you. It was such a mad, silly thought, but now it’s come true. It was safe to tell you.”

“Of course you could tell me. You’re safe here.”

The two of them remain tangled up like that for a long time. Liam closes his eyes, and he thinks Louis does the same, but neither of them fall asleep. They simply breathe together. Finally, Liam pets at Louis’ hair a bit, and then pulls back. Louis gives him a sleepy smile, and Liam knows that it’s time to leave. They hold hands and help each other stand up, amid much cracking of joints, and swearing. 

They’re still holding hands, and Liam takes Louis in: his shirt wrinkled now, his hair ruffled, and his eyes half closed. But he’s standing up straight, his shoulders aren’t hunched over. He looks confident. So this is what a Cardinal looks like. “Congratulations, Louis,” Liam says, knowing that it’s the last time he’ll ever be able to use that name. Louis gets that pained look on his face again, as though he might cry, but he smiles through it. 

As he makes his way back to his own room, Liam realizes that maybe Louis needed to hear the name one last time, just as much as Liam wanted to say it.

+

Around one in the afternoon the next day, Liam rushes in the front doors of the hotel and through the familiar lobby. He had exchanged a few quick texts earlier that morning to arrange everything, and then run out on one last errand in the city. He now attempts to check his watch while also unwinding his scarf from around his neck, and hold on to the plastic bag that he’s carrying. He hopes that he isn’t too late.

It turns out that Louis is already standing underneath the Waldorf clock, wearing his usual black blazer. Soon he’ll be trading in his lay clothes for a formal Cardinal’s robe to be worn everywhere. But today he looks relaxed, if a little tired—the prominent dark circles under his eyes a giveaway of the previous night’s activities—but he looks pleased, too. His eyes are still that clear, open blue Liam had seen last night.

“I’ll have you know,” Louis says by way of greeting. “I missed early Mass this morning for the first time ever because I was sleeping.”

“It’s your own fault, you cigar maniac! Besides, you’re a Cardinal, remember?” Liam says with a grin. “You can do what you like.”

“Shh!” Louis gives a violent shake of his head. “Not officially a Cardinal yet.”

“You know, you really are insanely superstitious for a priest,” Liam can’t help observing. “Have you told your mum yet?”

“Yeah, I talked to her a little bit ago. I thought I might have to call an ambulance for her, she was hyperventilating so much. It was all very alarming.”

“She deserves to be proud, and excited.”

“She’s excited, for sure. Possibly more than I am.”

Now it’s Liam’s turn to shake his head. Before he can say anything else though, he hears footsteps behind him and “Daddy!” as someone crashes into his leg.

“Ah, here they are!” Liam says, as he looks around to see Madeleine gripping his leg, and Eleanor standing slightly behind her with a smile on her face. Liam looks back to Louis. “These two wanted to say goodbye, if that’s alright?”

“I’m honored.” Louis crouches down to Madeleine’s level. “Are you all packed?”

“No,” she answers, with a pout. “I’m supposed to be doing that now, but some of my new things from the toy store don’t fit in my suitcase. It’s annoying, and I’m bored of packing.”

“Uh-oh,” Louis grins, all lopsided. “I’m sure one of your parents could help with that. Maybe your dad could leave behind a few pairs of shoes in exchange for fitting your new toys in his suitcase?”

“Not fair at all!” Liam cries, as Madeleine and Louis chuckle together. “What have my shoes ever done to either of you?”

“I hope you enjoyed New York,” Louis says to her, ignoring him. “Even though you caught a cold.”

“Yes. I want to go home, but I also like it here. More than I thought I would.”

“You’re a serious jetsetter!” Louis exclaims, a little bit in awe. “Vraiment, un jour, tu devrais visiter Paris. Au printemps, peut-être. Mais, attention, apporte-toi un parapluie!” Madeleine laughs at his advice, and Louis smiles at her laugh. He stands up again. “Au revoir, Mademoiselle Madeleine.”

“Au revoir, Uncle Père Louis.”

Eleanor sets her hand on Madeleine’s shoulder and leans down. “That was nice, hon,” she says in a low voice, intended just for her daughter. “We should go, and leave you two,” she straightens up and looks between Liam and Louis. “But first, I have something to share, because I suspect that it’s due to you.” She’s looking directly at Louis now.

“Me?” Louis looks genuinely clueless, and Liam marvels at the mutual ability of Louis and Eleanor to do that to one another.

“Yes. Today is Sunday, but I decided to check my work email, you know, just in case. Since I’m about to get on an overnight flight, it couldn’t hurt. When I opened my email I discovered that one of the Condé editors—you know, the ones we had dinner with at Momofuku—emailed me this morning. They want me to do a piece for Vanity Fair. They emailed me on a _Sunday morning_ ,” Eleanor emphasizes. “The email said they couldn’t wait to contact me.”

“That’s brilliant!” Louis exclaims. “And I’m sorry, I hate to disappoint you, but I had absolutely nothing to do with it.”

Eleanor gives him a wry look. “I suspect they really wanted you for something, the charming soon-to-be-Cardinal. But they couldn’t have you, so they went with their second option.”

Louis’ eyes flicker. He seems to going through several emotions, like channels being changed on a tv. “I somehow doubt it,” he says in a quiet voice. “You couldn’t be anyone’s second choice, Eleanor.”

Eleanor looks at Louis, really holds his gaze, and her own expression remains neutral. Liam remembers her sad smile, and the way she used to clench her teeth in concentration like she needed to defend herself against something. As Eleanor looks at Louis now, something passes between them, and her expression eventually shifts into a soft, natural smile. Liam doesn’t know what they had communicated to each other, and that’s alright. It’s just for them to know. But he wonders if maybe Eleanor won’t need her sad smile anymore.

“We should go,” Eleanor says again, and this time it’s final. She takes Madeleine’s hand and with a look at Liam, leaves him alone with Louis. Madeleine turns around to wave to Louis one last time.

Louis watches them walk away, then turns to Liam with an eye-crinkling smile. “Oh!” he cries, suddenly. “I forgot. I’ve gotten you something, but it might be more appropriate for Eleanor. So, it’s for both of you.”

Liam watches as he reaches into his blazer, pulls out a thin book, and hands it over. “ _Old New York_ by Edith Wharton,” Liam reads out. “You’re expecting me to read?”

“If you ask very nicely, your wife might read it to you. A bedtime story, perhaps.”

“I should be so lucky,” Liam laughs.

“Yes, you should be.”

“It’s wonderful, thank you. I’ll be happy to give her the book, and she’ll be happy to read it.”

“It isn’t your birthday this time, but I thought I should try and keep up the tradition. And,” Louis’ face changes, and Liam realizes that he’s seeing Louis looking genuinely shy for the first time. “I thought you two could have something to share.”

Liam doesn’t shiver this time. Instead, he feels his chest expanding with a fond sort of warmth. “It’s kind of perfect, actually,” Liam assures him. “You see, because I’ve got something for you as well. I think I remember you saying something back at St Patricks. I won’t say the age, but I remember you saying that _your_ birthday is coming up soon.”

Louis groans. “Yes, on the twenty-fourth. Two days from now. But I reject it entirely. I can’t remember when birthdays stopped being fun. It’s because I’m an old man now, and my memory is going.”

“Oh, but I heard you were turning twenty-seven again!” Liam sees Louis gasp, nearly imperceptible. “Anyway, it’s something very small, not like a proper birthday present at all. It’s just that, no one actually buys CDs anymore, do they? Everything’s downloaded straight to your brain. And forget about actual records. So, I wasn’t sure that I should buy music for you. Then I realized I didn’t have to get you the music, I could just get you this.” And Liam hands over the thin plastic bag he’s been carrying.

Louis opens the bag, and a print slides out. “Time Out. The Dave Brubeck Quartet,” he reads the title at the top of the print. 

“That’s the artwork from the original album that Take Five was a part of,” Liam explains. Below the album title, is a reproduction of an abstract painting that the quartet had chosen. It’s all bright color and shifting lines, so that the eye doesn’t know where to look first. It’s the exact dynamic of the album’s music captured in visual art form.

“It’s beautiful,” Louis says, eyes roving excitedly over the print. “But does this mean that you’re putting me in time out?”

“The title has to do with the odd time signatures on the album,” Liam laughs. “The group challenged themselves to write each piece in an unusual way. But yes, it works your way as well.”

“I was just checking,” Louis says with a wink. But then, quite suddenly, his expression is solemn, and he isn’t joking anymore. “So, now I’ve got this marvellous album artwork, but tell me about your new album, Liam. Will you write about New York?”

Liam shifts his weight from foot to foot, considering. “I’m not sure. I don’t think that I need to, at least not in the same way that I needed to write about Paris. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely,” Louis nods. “I’ve kept it, you know,” he adds, after a pause.

“Kept what?”

“I don’t use it, obviously. It has no practical use. It isn’t meant for anything like that,” he doesn’t exactly answer, but he does elaborate. “It’s in a drawer at home in Paris.” Louis is staring beyond Liam, as though he can see the silver key, can see Liam taking it out of his messenger bag and giving it to him. “Yes, I’ve kept it.” he repeats.

Liam is struck quiet for a moment. They stand together, letting shared silence and history stretch between them. The only thing Liam can hear is the systematic ticking of the Waldorf clock above them. “I’m thinking of taking Madeleine to Paris,” he says, eventually.

“You must. I told her to bring an umbrella when she visits.”

“You handing out sound, practical advice? I’m sorry, has hell frozen over? You’d be notified if that were to happen, right?”

“Normally I would appreciate your wit, Liam. However, Parisian rain is no joking matter. People don’t think to bring an umbrella for some reason. No, she must see Paris, and who better to bring her than someone who knows it so well.”

“There isn’t much in this world that I know as well as I knew Paris that summer.”

“It’s the same for me,” Louis agrees, in a quiet voice. “Although I’m glad that we have New York now. Of course it’s different, but different isn’t bad.”

“Not bad at all. It’s been…” Liam knows he shouldn’t even try to think of the right words to describe it. Instead he points to the album cover Louis is holding. “It’s been like that.” 

“Exactly like that,” Louis agrees. “You know, I feel like a whole new world has been opened up to me, now that I understand music.” He pauses, looks down at the album cover, and then back to Liam. “I didn’t say goodbye in Paris. I didn’t say the word. I was scared of it, then. Maybe it was silly of me, but words have power, even if you don’t always think so. But I don’t think it holds that power over me anymore.”

Liam scrubs a hand over his jaw, remembering. “You’re right, I suppose we didn’t say it out loud to each other.”

“Goodbye, Liam.” Louis pronounces it simply. Goodbye doesn’t sound harsh, doesn’t cut through Liam. The word is gentle in its finality. Louis makes a movement forward, and curls one hand around Liam’s wrist. Liam feels Louis’ thumb on his pulse, and he wants to live in that pressure. But then Louis drops his hand, and he realizes that he will have to live without it.

“Au revoir,” Liam says, his voice husky. He’s trying to decide which name to use. “Cardinal Tommo.” Louis gives him his best exasperatedly fond look, the one Liam had been hoping to provoke. Then Louis lets out a laugh, gives him an approving nod, and turns as though to leave. “Oh, hang on!” Liam says, reaching towards him. His fingers graze the side of Louis’ hand. The final touch is both too overwhelming, and not nearly enough. It will have to do. “Happy Birthday.”

Louis looks at him, and they hold each other’s gaze for a long moment. Liam can hear the water of the Seine rushing beneath Pont Neuf as Louis smiles—small, thoughtful, but genuine—and says, “Merci.”

The Waldorf clock chimes, signalling that it’s quarter past the hour. It’s on that note that Liam and Louis turn and walk in opposite directions.

+

Liam is in the suite’s living room, shutting off his laptop and packing up his carry-on bag when Madeleine walks in, and sits down next to him on the sofa. She’s looking at him with a determined stare, and Liam sets his bag down on the floor.

“Hiya Madeleine, hon. Are you all packed up now?”

“Yes,” she answers quickly, but she doesn’t look away from him. Liam sits back and waits for her to continue. “When we said goodbye downstairs to Uncle Père Louis just now… is that it? We won’t see him again?”

“Well, no, we probably won’t. He’s going to be very busy now travelling back and forth between Paris and Rome.”

“Yes, you told me this morning that he’ll be a Cardinal now.”

“Exactly, he’ll be a Cardinal,” Liam repeats, hoping that this will be the end of it.

“It’s just that…” Madeleine twists a strand of hair around her fingers while she gathers her thoughts. “I saw you. We were at the toy store. I heard the keyboard playing, and I ran upstairs to see it. I knew I shouldn’t have left you, but I also knew where you were the whole time. When I looked down through the glass, I could see you. You and Uncle Père Louis were holding hands.”

Liam stares. “Yes, I suppose we were.”

Madeleine tilts her head to the side, appraising him. “I used to hold hands sometimes with Colin Yates from school. It was nice, but then it got a bit boring. So I stopped.”

“Just a minute!” Liam interrupts. “You’ve been holding hands with a boy?”

“ _Dad_ ,” she huffs, losing patience with him. It cuts Liam every time he realizes that he isn’t going to be “Daddy” very often anymore, and she probably knows it. “I just… it’s just nice holding hands with someone you like. That’s all.”

“It is nice,” he agrees.

She’s still staring at him though, unsatisfied. “Won’t you miss him?” she bursts out, finally.

Liam had wondered when the pain of seeing Louis again would strike. He thought it would come with Louis featuring regularly in his life again, or when he introduced Louis to Eleanor. But now he understands, this is the painful part. Eleanor is an adult, and she had dealt with Louis on her own terms, but Madeleine is different. She had been there at the beginning, when they had both run into Louis outside of St. Patricks. Liam had then brought Louis into the family, had let Madeleine become attached to him, and had foolishly let her refer to him as “Uncle.” More than that, he had let her see his own attachment to Louis. 

“I’ll miss him every day,” Liam answers truthfully because he knows now that you can’t run away from pain. You have to acknowledge it if you ever hope to move on from it. It’s one thing that he wants Madeleine to learn. “But Uncle Père Louis is going to be tending to all kinds of important issues in Rome now,” Liam continues. “It’s his duty, and it’s meaningful to him. And I’m going to be in London, doing all kinds of things with you, and with mum. That’s what’s important to me. You see, honey, it’s not that we won’t miss each other. It’s just that, there are other things to take care of. Does that make sense to you?”

Madeleine takes a couple of deep breaths, in and out, as she contemplates this. Her gaze falls on the coffee table in front of them. “Oh, my coloring book!” she exclaims, picking up her book of stained glass window designs. “Uncle Père Louis said we could hang the pages up on real windows to see the colors. Can we try that when we get home?”

“We absolutely can. Go and pack it in your bag, darling.”

Madeleine slides off the sofa and runs back into her bedroom. Liam remains in the living room, unsure what to think. She had looked at him with such a serious gaze when she asked if he would miss Louis, her eyes partly like Eleanor’s and partly like his, so that the combination is uniquely her own. Liam wonders what she’ll think when she’s older and remembers that her father was once friends with a Cardinal. He had asked if things made sense to her, and she hadn’t answered, but he feels as though maybe she understands it all on a level that’s beyond him.

Liam hears soft footsteps behind him and, a moment later, feels a hand on his shoulder. The door to the master bedroom must have been open the whole time. Without turning around, he reaches up and rests his hand on top of Eleanor’s.

+

Liam, Eleanor, and Madeleine wait for their flight at the gate.

“Going home,” Madeleine singsongs.

“Home,” Eleanor echoes, stroking Madeleine’s hair.

They hum a little nonsense song together, and Liam closes his eyes and listens to them. Home is a big concept. Home is London with Eleanor and Madeleine, of course, and Zayn, Niall, and Harry, as well. New York had started to feel like home though, with the easy routine of shared breakfasts every morning. And, a long time ago, Paris had been home, too.

Their flight to London begins boarding, and as Liam stands next to Eleanor in line, he remembers how both she and Louis had intimated that there’s a living aspect to cities, that the city itself is alive. Liam hadn’t contributed much to either conversation, letting the two of them communicate through him. But he knows that this idea is true because, once, in Paris, he had painted a lock and carried it to a bridge. He had walked to the very center of the bridge, and then fastened the lock to the balustrade. As the lock clicked into place, he could feel a part of himself being absorbed by the city. In fact, it was more than one part, it was an entire version of himself. Paris had brought a version of Liam to life, and so that version Liam would always belong to the city, giving life back to Paris.

Liam had fastened the lock to Pont des Arts because he wanted to leave it there, whatever “it” had been between himself and Louis. But Louis always knows, he always knows Liam, and he had given that version of Liam back to himself with the scribbled-over Paris Pratique. It had been the most difficult thing Liam had ever done, to break Louis’ fiercely loving gaze and walk away, but Zayn was waiting for him, and Louis had given him a map. He had no choice but to use it. So, he had traced their steps back across Pont Neuf, and then opened the map where he could figuratively re-trace their steps over and over again.

Liam takes his seat on the flight next to Madeleine. He looks out the window, his last view of New York giving him a glimpse of the hectic life of the airport, as other planes come and go. Eleanor, sitting on the other side of their daughter, takes out her brand new copy of Wharton to read. Eleanor uses words as her trade, and maybe the book is a type of map for her. Liam’s collected maps from the places he and Eleanor have visited together: Chicago, Edinburgh, Zurich, Budapest, and Rome. And he thinks, isn’t that what maps are, anyway: a two dimensional version of the life of a city? But Rome belongs to Louis now, it’s one of his homes. Liam can absolutely picture it: Rome, a city that rises up among ancient ruins, and Louis cutting a striking figure through it all in his black silk robe and Cardinal red sash.

As the plane backs away from the gate, Liam realizes with a jolt that he doesn’t have a map of New York. He hadn’t used one, not once. He breathes out, sits back in his seat. It’s alright, he doesn’t need a map, he has the rhythms of the city memorized. The constant beat of footsteps against the pavement, the stop and start at crosswalks, the caffeine rush of it all. He’s absorbed it into his bones, just like with music. 

Perhaps he will write about New York on the new album. Not using words, but a beat. He’ll find a way to communicate the sexy thrill of sliding into a black town car for the evening, the stark grandeur of a cathedral rising up in the middle of Fifth Avenue, and the hush of a morning snowfall. 

Above all, Liam thinks, as the plane picks up speed in preparation for lift off, he wants to communicate a full sense of the city, and that includes moments of melancholia and fright. For there is always the flash of hot fear when you realize that you’ve lost yourself in the indifferent crowd, and the icy chill in your veins when you steel yourself to walk away from something that’s desperately important to you. 

Liam knows that it will be quite an undertaking, tapping into the life of a city like that, but perhaps he’s up to the task. The wheels of the plane lift in true takeoff, and he thinks that, yes, he might be able to pull it off. Because Liam knows that the thing that resonates most about cities—about the act of unfolding a map—isn’t a sense of loss or fear. Rather, it’s the enduring sense of hope.


End file.
